The Shift of Wind
by SoloWraith
Summary: Eleanor Guthrie has never been afraid of Charles Vane. Set pre-Season 1: my version of events leading up to him telling her that he loved her once. Rating is for coarse language and some degree of smut.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: For convenience's sake I have combined the tavern and brothel into one physical location although I realize they are separate in the show. This story has a narrow focus, which largely excludes the other pirate crews and characters I wanted to give a lot of detail to Eleanor and Vane's history. It could be considered more or less canonical with a few minor exceptions. I hesitated to categorize it as "romance" because theirs is a turbulent one; the ending may not be tidy._

* * *

 **The Making of Eleanor Guthrie**

 **Mid-summer, 1708 - New Providence Island**

* * *

Eleanor, trusted to have several hours to herself each day, generally pleased to spend them out of doors. In particular, she liked to walk up and down the length of the wharf extending out into the sunshine-spattered sea; when her legs tired of the activity, she would simply stand on the edge of the docks and gaze into the pellucid teal-hued water below. With the breeze coming in from the ocean, it always smelled so much better than back in town.

Her father had never expressly said she mightn't go on the docks themselves—just not to the beach, and her feet had only touched sand for the few moments from the path before they hit the wooden planks of the wharf. She was a very literal girl, although she also realized quite well that most of the time she was not following the spirit of Richard Guthrie or Mr. Scott's rules. At thirteen, she had long ago concluded that if her father didn't care enough to oversee her upbringing and education himself (having put her in the charge of a house slave, though admittedly a capable one), Eleanor was not going to concern herself overmuch with which of her doings he would or wouldn't approve of.

There were so many kinds of people to watch when she tired of imagining mermaids and sea creatures in the waves. The wharf was usually bustling with activity, with the constant loading and unloading of endless crates and barrels from ships entering and leaving the bay, bound and shuffling slaves, whores flaunting their wares. Words were tossed around like weapons, swords were drawn at the slightest insults, fights arose as quickly as a summer storm—Eleanor had even seen men killed. None of it kept her from coming back. She had begun to make sense out of the language of commerce, the terms used in shipbuilding, even of the words and phrases brought back from distant shores. It was the other half of her education, wildly interesting and bearing little (if any) resemblance to the one she received from her books and Mr. Scott's patient tutelage. Though, honestly, her eyes and head sometimes ached after a few hours spent amidst all the color and motion and activity, and it was then a relief to return to the bland walls of her home and schoolroom.

No one had ever given her any trouble on the docks, though she was subject to lengthy stares from men who were new arrivals to Nassau. It did not occur to Eleanor to wonder why. She had grown accustomed to being stared at: a fair-skinned, well-dressed young English lady was rarely seen in these parts. Any girls about her age were brought off ships as slaves, in rags and ill-treated. She did not think of herself as an oddity, however; she was simply Richard Guthrie's daughter, a fact she would have told anyone who asked, though few spoke to her directly.

Despite her generally pragmatic nature, Eleanor was from time to time lonely, and could have wished for another girl or even an older woman to associate with. Mr. Scott was all very well, but she had questions that could not be brought to him or her father, the latter whom she might not see for days on end in any case. There was a cook and a maid in their house, but Eleanor didn't care for either of them; the maid she found intolerably stupid, and the cook shooed her out of the kitchens whenever she ventured near.

It was hot today, in the early afternoon, and Eleanor's back was sticky with clinging layers of undergarments. She tugged at the neck of her linen overdress, and loosened the straps of the bonnet meant to protect her face from the hot Bahaman sun. She was usually diligent about keeping the bonnet up so that her skin wouldn't obviously announce the amount of time she spent outdoors, but a few moments wouldn't hurt. Her golden hair, now uncovered, made a few heads turn.

"...That's the _Ranger_ out there, ain't it?" She caught the scrap of an exchange between two men bearing woven baskets of fruit on their shoulders along the wharf. One of them paused to avoid bumping Eleanor as she darted past them. "Captain Vane coming in right now."

Her interest caught, Eleanor followed their gaze to the skiff approaching the docks. The name was one she'd heard before, though she'd not yet seen its owner.

There were several men in the small boat, one rowing with long, easy strokes to bring the craft quickly near where she was standing. She watched them, trying to decide which of the men was the captain, the one whose name had so many stories attached to it and so was often spoken in tones of fear and respect. Eleanor half-expected to be able to read his identity on Charles Vane's face.

A regular dockhand who knew Eleanor to be Richard's daughter came up and nudged her elbow, respectfully. "Best stay out of the way now, miss..."

"Captain Vane doesn't own the wharf, surely." She spoke with confidence, with no intention of being pert.

One at a time, the men vaulted over the side of the boat and atop the docks. Eleanor realized she did know which one was the captain, though she couldn't have said why; perhaps it was simply that the other two had more deferential postures.

He wasn't the tallest of the three. She noticed first a livid scar along the length of his forearm, and then his deep-set, intensely light blue eyes, when he met her gaze for a few long moments. She wondered if the story she'd heard about him cutting a piece of flesh from another man's body and eating it were true, and wrinkled her nose inadvertently.

They all brushed past her then, their boots making the boards vibrate under her feet, and the moment was over, just the drift of smoke from the captain's long tangled hair lingering into her nostrils.

She took a breath, looked after them, and saw Mr. Scott in the distance, coming down the hill. Even from there she could read the expression of mildly angry concern on his face.

Eleanor murmured a choice phrase she'd heard from the lips of pirates and whores alike, but never from any well-brought-up English ladies. Why had he chosen today to come looking for her? If only he could have come a little later he would have met her on the road and that wouldn't have been nearly as damning; she could have said she'd been anywhere.

Mr. Scott waited for her, his expression now composed, until she joined him on the path up by the bluffs. Eleanor gathered her skirts to ascend the hill. She decided she wouldn't bother to create a defense until he said something. He seemed in no hurry to speak, so they walked silently back the length of the road to the enclosure where the modest cottage sat.

Scott turned to her at last. "You know the docks are no place for a girl of your upbringing, Miss Eleanor. Your father would be horrified to have seen you where I did."

 _I have learned a great deal there, Mr. Scott_. She thought about saying this, but instead said, calmly, "I am not a child any longer."

"But you are still very young." His dark forehead was wrinkled with the effort of forbearance. "And most impressionable. Have you gone there often?"

She shook her head in demure innocence. "I only went today because it was so hot. The breezes are cooler coming into the bay." She watched his face carefully to see the conflict play out over it. To tell her father, and accept some (or all) of the blame for her actions, or to allow her implicit permission to continue her visits. Because they both knew he could not forbid her to go, nor would she obey should he try.

At last he said, "I wish you would not return to the beaches. They are populated by most unsavoury personages, even during the day."

"They are the people my father does business with," Eleanor pointed out. "And they are the people _I_ will do business with, when the time comes."

He looked more resigned than startled. "What do you know of such things? You know letters and figures, better than many do, but you will have no need to work. Mr. Guthrie has seen to that."

"I _want_ to work—" Eleanor faced him squarely— "and I will."

He dismissed her with a sigh. In the cloakroom, Eleanor untied her bonnet straps, resigning herself to the rest of the warm afternoon spent indoors. But later, though her head was bent dutifully over the passage in the copybook in the study room, her thoughts turned back towards Captain Charles Vane. It pleased her that he had a face and a body now. The fierce pirate of repute was just a man after all.

She liked to know such things. She liked stories to be made real. It seemed to her that was how one truly learned.

* * *

 **1711**

Serving at tables was not what Richard Guthrie had had in mind for his daughter when he granted reluctant consent that she help out more at the tavern, Eleanor knew. She was quite sure he'd pictured her safely at a desk keeping ledgers in the back, behind a solid wooden door and with Mr. Scott and an armed man or two in attendance. She did that, too, of course. But now, at the age of sixteen and with even less patience for sitting at a desk all day than she'd had when younger, she was taking matters into her own hands.

Too much was wasted when the maids were serving. It wasn't their rum, they didn't have to pay for it; they would toss it down their own throats or pour it out on the floor as soon as serve it again. Someone had to set an example.

Eleanor unloaded a platter of food from her left arm, to appreciative growls from the hungry patrons at one table, and picked up a tankard from a nearby bench as she passed by, sniffing its meagre contents judiciously. Unspoiled. A knot was building between her shoulders, reminding her that she was tired; the moon had long since risen, the heat of the day dissipated, but it was still very hot with the tavern fires and the multitude of lit candles.

She paused for a moment to rub the base of her back with her one free hand, feeling the damp material and briefly longing for a soak in her tub upstairs. That could wait until tomorrow. Tonight was very busy; there were several ships' crews in and she hated to think of the poor service and inaccurate accounting that would go on if she were to leave now.

She attended a few more tables, rather absently, running through some figures in her head as she served and poured. Most of the men were known to her by now and she was able to move about freely without the need to give anyone too much individual attention. Men were men, after all—many of them in varying stages of drunkenness and while they knew quite well that she was the untouchable governor's daughter, she had learned early on not to smile too deeply at anyone, even ones who pleased her eye. And thus far, none had pleased it enough thus far to induce her to bring one upstairs.

None of the men, anyway.

There _had_ been Max, one of Mr. Noonan's favorite girls. Eleanor's first friend, last year, and only lover. She wasn't sure what they were to each other these days. Max had neither the freedom nor the inclination to be exclusive, and Eleanor's practicality (or perhaps, she sometimes wondered, a lack of genuine attachment) prevented her from any jealousy when Max was unavailable. It was just the way things were.

Max was beautiful, generous; Eleanor confided in her, yet never knew if she completely trusted her. Perhaps they were too much alike. Max possessed a shrewd head for business and occasionally shocking flares of ambition, though she tried to conceal the latter.

Eleanor caught a glimpse of Max now by the far wall, laughing with practiced artifice at the attempts of some fool trying clumsily to be suave. Since it all came down to fucking in the end, it amused Eleanor how some of the younger men tried so hard to entertain the girls. The whores were there to entertain _them,_ and if the women had to spend time enduring well-meant gallantries, they were essentially draining money from their own pockets. Moreover, they were likely to receive at the least a tongue-lashing from Mr. Noonan, who had forbidden the display of marked preferences.

Distracted, Eleanor poured an amount of rum from the flagon she was holding into the mugs of those at the table at her side. Abruptly, warm fingers circled her wrist, jerking her arm back just a little—not quite enough to send her off-balance, but enough to startle her. It had been a long time since anyone had been brave or stupid enough to touch her while she was working, and she turned her head, preparing to send a coldly furious blaze of eyes at the offender since the grip on her arm was unrelenting, and trying to struggle free would indicate fear or weakness.

"That fresh?" His voice was low, gravelly like stones rubbing on each other, and not one she recognized, but as she stared harder into the dim alcove she saw the face of the _Ranger_ 's captain. She was momentarily frozen, unsure how to proceed. In the year she had been working at the tavern, it was the first time she had encountered Captain Vane among the patrons.

His grip tightened, reminding her she was standing in silence, not answering his question.

"Of course," Eleanor said, lifting her chin, hearing herself a bit high and unnatural. She caught Max's wary glance from across the room. Vane's tablemates were a man with an intelligent but vaguely sardonic face and a person whose smaller form could have indicated a woman, though shrouded in a greatcoat and slouchy hat it was hard to tell. "This establishment does not offer anything of less than the highest quality."

"You're responsible for this...establishment?"

There were a few pairs of eyes on them now, though the din of conversation and raillery around had not diminished. Yet. It would, if she were to make a misstep. Eleanor shifted with discomfort. Damn the man, his fingers were like a gradually constricting bracelet. "Yes," she said, steadily. "I am."

"Then you'll taste it for me first." He held up his mug.

"Let me go," she retorted.

He did, and Eleanor resisted the desire to rub her freed wrist. She took the drink, repressed the surge of nausea in her stomach and tipped back a hearty gulp of the rum. A trail of fire wormed down her throat. She forced the tightest of smiles between taut teeth. His eyes were assessing; if this was a test she wasn't about to come short of the mark.

"It tastes good to me," she said, raising the drink like a toast.

She was completely unprepared for him to capture her wrist again and press the inside of it casually against his mouth. " _You_ taste good to me."

The audacity of the gesture rendered her temporarily speechless, and she reflexively tightened her fist to strike at him but stopped herself in time. He was too much unknown. She could not smell alcohol or opiates on him which meant he was more than likely in his right mind and that, to her, was more dangerous than a purely inebriated, overaffectionate sailor who'd been aboard ship too long.

"Such liberties may not be taken with me," she told him coldly. "I am not one of this establishment's girls. I am Richard—"

"—Guthrie's daughter, yes, yes. What's your given name?" He was suddenly so direct that it mitigated the effect of the question's insolence. For a moment she hesitated.

"Lovely. Introductions," said the other man at the table, with affected good cheer. "Captain Charles Vane, Mistress Eleanor Guthrie. I am Jack Rackham, and this lovely creature at my side is Mistress Anne Bonny."

"Fuck you, Jack," came the murmur from the slouchy hat.

"Only attempting to be civilized; we must all remember our manners, mustn't we?" Rackham spoke cheerfully, as if moments ago his captain had not just essentially licked Eleanor's wrist like a dog—no, like something more feral than that.

Eleanor flattened her hands against her striped skirt and this time smiled in a way that did not attempt to be pleasant. "I have other patrons to attend to," she said. "Do enjoy our offerings. There is something here for all tastes, no matter how...primitive." She met Vane's gaze directly again. "I, however, am unobtainable." She stressed the syllables.

Rackham cleared his throat, causing her to glance at him, and clapped his hands. "Well! Good. Thank you. Mistress Guthrie. Don't let us keep you further from your guests." He shot a look across the table at his captain who was now appearing lazily uninterested.

Eleanor turned away, holding her offended wrist to her stomach once she was out of view. She wanted to go upstairs and regain composure in the privacy of her quarters, but was reluctant to be seen running away. Instead she served a few more customers, then lingered by the bar for a few moments. Max came over before she left and stood at her elbow, pretending to be doing something with the various bottles, stacking mugs haphazardly, her body language asking if everything was all right. Eleanor supposed it was, but she felt unsettled nonetheless. She busied herself with wiping down the wooden bar counter and avoided looking into the far corner where Vane and his two crew members still sat. After what seemed an appropriate amount of time she left the tavern area and took the stairs up two at a time to her personal rooms, swearing under her breath.

Finally alone, she poured tepid water from the jug into the basin and scrubbed her arm vigorously with a scrap of linen cloth until the skin itched in protest, then stared upwards into the beaten mirror. Wispy curls were escaping her braid, and her face seemed splotchy. She splashed water on it, too, and dried on the edge of her apron.

There was a staccato tap on the door; she had rather expected Mr. Scott, who was never far off, to be checking on her.

"Come in," she said, half-turning her head, not realizing how careless she had become until the door slid open part of the way and after a moment of silence she looked and saw Vane standing there. The tension in her stomach multiplied and she felt blood rush to the tips of her fingers. _Stupid, Eleanor_. There was so much noise from the tavern still, yet if Mr. Scott were anywhere nearby, surely he'd hear her scream.

Not that she meant to. She firmed her mouth and assumed her supercilious tone. "What are you doing here, Captain Vane?"

He used a hand to idly measure the thickness of the door, then looked back at her. "Was that a challenge or a warning, downstairs?"

"Neither. It was a statement of fact. Please leave."

"You asked me to come in."

"I didn't—" She bit the inside of her cheek. "I didn't know it was you."  
"You were expecting someone else?"

"My manservant is nearby. If I scream he will come."

"Seems like you might be too proud for that."

She was, but he couldn't know that for certain. She analyzed the potential weapons within her immediate reach. Usually she kept a dagger strapped to her thigh, but today, of course, she had left it off when changing skirts earlier that evening after having spilled a trencher of stew. There was a solid silver candlestick by the bed table, but he was probably closer to it than she was.

She could throw a chair at him. Perhaps. The chairs were very heavy.

That would be a last resort.

"What do you want?" she repeated. Men were easily distracted creatures. It was essential to make them focus on the point.

"I don't mind a challenge," he said. "But I don't like to be warned. Not by some barely-grown girl playing at being tavern keeper."

"If you knew me at all," Eleanor answered, as civilly as possible, "you would know I am a good deal more than that."

"Maybe." He leaned back against the door in a proprietary manner. She did not like that, how comfortable he was in her doorway. Impulsively she crossed over to him, stopping just short so that if he came any further into the room he would have to lay hands on her first. This was unequivocally _her_ territory, even if he had presumed on her in the tavern downstairs.

He straightened up a little when she was near. Though not significantly taller than she was, the man had a chest that was a broad solid wall of muscle. His skin was sun-darkened and his eyes, upon closer proximity, were so very perceptive. And blue, so very blue.

She hesitated. He was not attacking her, but she had asked him to leave, and he was not moving.

Mr. Scott appeared in the hall behind them. "Is everything all right, Mistress?"

His voice was cautiously deferential, designed not to give offense should there be a good reason for the pirate captain to be standing in the doorway of Eleanor's personal quarters at night, though she certainly couldn't think of any.

"Quite," Eleanor said, tersely. "Captain Vane was having some difficulty finding his way out."

"You'd better show me yourself," Vane said.

 _I'll show you the point of my dagger when I get it back in my hands_ , she thought, but pressed her lips together in a smile; if he wanted her to play the part of gracious hostess, she would do it for a moment or two longer. At least they would be getting out of her private quarters. Nodding to Mr. Scott, she preceded Vane out of the room and marched down the stairs, back straight as possible, taking measured steps.

He followed her out to the front street. The night air met them, musky and thick with the scent of frangipani and summer heat. A few stragglers were lurching down the road, singing an uproarious if indelicate ditty about the sweet nectar between a woman's legs, while the flames of nearby torches caught and gusted on the winds.

Eleanor stopped on the veranda enclosure, folding her arms protectively across her corseted chest, waiting for Vane to pass her.

He paused on the top step.

"My tent's on the beach," he said. "If you're looking for me."

 _Fuck your tent, and fuck you_ , she imagined replying pleasantly. But the tavern sounds behind her reminded her of the need to keep the young business alive and prosperous. "Good night, Captain."

"The drink," he said, abruptly. "Don't water it down or put anyone else's leavings in mine."

She maintained her smile, only barely.

"Good evening, Mistress Guthrie." He went down the steps into the flickering darkness.

She was aware of Mr. Scott appearing behind her. They were both quiet for a few moments, until Vane faded from view down the street.

"That's not a man you should make an enemy of," Mr. Scott murmured. "Or—knowing his reputation—but perhaps I will offend you..."

"Oh, out with it if you are thinking it." Exasperated, Eleanor glanced at him.

"I was going to say—take as a lover." His voice was tentative as if he feared her wrath, but it was a relatively harmless observation, after all.

"I have no intention of doing either, thank you, Mr. Scott." She brushed past him and walked back inside.


	2. Chapter 2

In the weeks following her second encounter with Captain Vane, Eleanor came to realize that the strongest emotion the interaction had provoked in her was a feeling of vulnerability—a feeling she despised. After some consideration, she concluded that the only way to avoid being made to feel vulnerable was to further develop her natural strength of character and mind. As a female she could never be physically powerful, but it seemed to her that power could also be gained by the amassing of knowledge, so she threw herself into the study of economics and business.

She spent her mornings reading voraciously—adding to her father's library with tomes plundered from ships—and working with figures and numbers, not only with quill and parchment but also in her head until she could perform quick, complicated calculations at a moment's notice. She continued to work at the tavern in the afternoons and evenings, establishing her presence there so that it came to be expected, and handling any day-to-day problems that arose. Often she would return to her desk in the early morning to deal with shipping ledgers that had accumulated and that she insisted on looking over.

Far from exhausting Eleanor, this rather obsessive course of study and work gave her increased energy, although she spent so little time outdoors that her skin maintained a perpetual whiteness and her eyes often had dark circles from only catching a few hours' sleep before the new day began.

Mr. Scott expressed concern on several occasions that she was performing an unnecessary amount of extra activity, but Eleanor dismissed his qualms. There could be no such thing as too much exercise of the mind, not when keeping so busy held that feeling of vulnerability at bay. She pursued knowledge obsessively, picturing her mind like a storehouse that needed constantly to be stacked with food and supplies against a time of certain deprivation.

Yet it was all theoretical, and at times Eleanor, longing for practical experience, deeply resented the limitations of her sex. She had never been aboard a ship, for one thing, beyond the trip from England as a small child following her mother's passing, and that she barely remembered. She had in the past tried to persuade Mr. Scott to familiarize her with weaponry; what she knew of pistols and armaments was only gleaned from paper. She was confident in her use of a small dagger to defend herself if and when the need arose, but had no skill with a sword.

By the end of 1712, Eleanor had passed her seventeenth birthday, and was successfully running the flourishing business of the tavern, as well as dealing with many of the pirate captains for goods and supplies that were later sold on the black market. Richard Guthrie had grudgingly come to an acceptance of his daughter's natural managerial ability and let her have the birthright she would have had had she been a boy. Eleanor was no longer an oddity on New Providence Island, and often privately considered herself its very linchpin, thriving under the expectations and responsibility placed on her.

It became more commonplace to see the trio of Vane, Rackham and Anne Bonny in and around the tavern, those days when they were ashore and not hunting goods from merchant ships. Rackham was always very polite to Eleanor; by contrast, she could not get a word out of Anne, and Vane seemed similarly content to let his quartermaster speak for him when business required.

Sitting outside the tavern one morning, Eleanor was enjoying a few rare moments of stillness and sunshine when she caught a glimpse of the _Ranger'_ s quartermaster and its first mate having what (for them) was an animated discussion in a side alley.

Eleanor craned her neck, curious despite herself. She'd never seen Anne Bonny with any kind of expression on her face at all, but the woman was clearly angry about something or other as she waved her dagger quite close to Rackham's face. Eleanor watched them for a moment, bemused. Jack was defending himself with elaborate gestures and at last Anne sheathed her dagger, spat on the ground dismissively and stalked away in the opposite direction. Rackham spun, stared at the planks of the building facing him and cast his head up to the heavens as if in divine invocation.

Eleanor rose from the bench and crossed the street.

Running fingers through his spiky upright hair, Rackham gave her a tragic, pleading look. "That woman is fucking impossible."

"I'm sorry," she said with a smile, feeling rather like an indulgent older sister, although he was probably ten years her senior.

" _Im_ possible." He put finger and thumb together in a dramatic manner, then rubbed his jaw and looked at her more closely. "We don't often see you out at this hour of the day. Is anything wrong?"

"No. I just felt I should be taking the air, for once. It's a beautiful morning."

Jack shrugged, looking up at the sky shot through with skeins of silky cloud. "So it is," he admitted. "Though I'm in no mood to appreciate it."

"I didn't know you were ashore. I had thought the _Ranger_ wasn't due back for another fortnight."

He scratched vaguely at stubble on his chin. "Things...happened."

"Is Captain Vane well?" She wondered if she'd sounded anxious, though surely the potential loss of income was reason enough to be concerned.

"Well enough...we were in a minor scuffle. He was mildly wounded. He will recover soon, I hope. Or the crew will start asking for a new captain." Rackham laughed without much humor. "Not very loyal, most men, always with their eye on the next prize."

"Naturally they want to be earning," Eleanor said, not sure why she was defending Vane's crew. Those she knew, she had little use for—she found them a particularly rowdy and venal lot, more prone than most to cause trouble in the tavern or deal roughly with the girls. "Would you take me to the captain? I'd like to see him myself."

He straightened a little. "I assure you he is legitimately out of commission for the time being."

Eleanor was vexed that he assumed she was only speaking with the business in mind, though it was true enough that she did always put the business first. "I only mean to offer help."

"As you wish," Jack said. "Though he may not be in quite the mood for visitors."

"I will tell him I insisted."

He made an uncertain sound in his throat, but stepped out of the alley, and Eleanor followed him out of the town and down the road towards the wharfs.

On the beach, Rackham stopped outside one of the larger tents, clearing his throat. "Captain?"

There was silence from within.

"Perhaps he is sleeping," Jack suggested.

"Perhaps he is dead," Eleanor said sharply. She swept the cloth door aside and stepped in, peering into the dimness with some internal hesitance belying her confident movements. Jack hovered behind her.

"I'm not dead," Vane growled—startling Eleanor, because his form was so still once her eyes adjusted enough to see him.

"What ails you, Captain?" she said, kneeling by his side and resting her hands on her skirts in front of her.

"Are you versed in the healing arts, Mistress Guthrie?"

"No," Eleanor admitted, choosing to disregard his sarcasm, "though I have in my time come across some fascinating chirurgeon's manuals."

Jack coughed.

"Find me some more spirits," Vane said, presumably to his quartermaster, who disappeared with alacrity.

Eleanor persisted. "Where was your injury?"

He lifted himself up on one elbow with an effort and stared at her with those close-set eyes that were hawk-like in their intensity. Every inch of his tanned bare chest was delineated by lean muscle. She was used to seeing shirtless men around the docks (and even occasionally in town as some of the pirates wore next to nothing when it was hot, English customs be damned) but had never been in such close proximity to one. She blinked but refused to be intimidated by his fathomless stare. He pulled aside a corner of his breeches, revealing at first what she feared was going to be an indecent amount of upper thigh until she saw the angry sword-gash scored across the leg.

"That must be kept clean," she said, "or it will putrify. Are you fevered?"

When he didn't respond she reached out, slowly, as she might to a wounded animal, and touched knuckles to his forehead. Warm, the skin was, but not dangerously so, to her perception. He didn't pull away.

"Would it inconvenience you if I die?" He sounded more curious than mocking.

"Your ship and its winnings are a part of my business," Eleanor acknowledged. "I do not know what kind of captain you are to your crew, but to me, you..." she hesitated momentarily. "You make an effective...partner."

He looked amused by this. "I wasn't aware you valued me so highly."

"I value all my associates connected to my work."

"Your personal ones come a distant second?"

She flushed, wondering if he somehow knew about Max, which really was the only relationship she had ever had and had ceased altogether in recent months, not in any dramatic fashion but because Eleanor had decided she didn't care to be vulnerable in that way either. "I don't have time for personal associations."

"You are a peculiar female, Eleanor Guthrie."

 _I have heard that sentiment expressed before_ , she thought, _and in less flattering ways_. Her father had once in frustration used the word "unwomanly".

"I suppose I am," she conceded, her voice catching on the last word only because he reached out for her face this time and she flinched; not afraid, but uncertain. His fingers brushed her cheek before trailing appraisingly along the edge of her jawline.

Eleanor straightened, sitting back on her heels. "I must be on my way. I came to see if you were in need of anything."

"Rum," he said, his voice getting rough again as he eased himself back down. "Where is my fucking quartermaster?"

"I am sure he is hurrying." She was sure of no such thing, perhaps he was arguing with Anne in an alley again for all she knew. "You must rest. Have him clean that wound. I will come tomorrow."

"No need for that," he said, closing his eyes.

"I would do as much for anyone who worked for me."

His eyes opened. "I don't work for you."

"With me," she amended, determined to be agreeable for the moment. She rose, smoothing her skirts and departed.

Eleanor had every intention of keeping her word and visiting him on the following day, but was kept busy by various issues arising in the afternoon, and was unable to get away from the tavern at night. The morning of the second day, she took a long overdue soak in her tub, dressed in a clean skirt and blouse, prepared some fresh fruit in the tavern kitchen and brought it with her down to the beach.

Rackham was outside Vane's tent with a hangdog look of ill-ease about him. He greeted her and helped himself to a piece of mango from the basket.

"How does he?" she asked, squinting against the bright sun.

"The ague has set in," Rackham admitted. "I am even less a physician than you, I suspect. If you would consent to watch him a while, I would be grateful. I could use an hour or seven of sleep and Anne will not administer any care. She has a surprisingly weak stomach for one so able at killing."

Eleanor pressed her lips together. "Of course. Please go and rest. Take a bed upstairs; if anyone asks, say it was authorized by me."

He gave an imitation of a courtly bow which (while done in his somewhat mocking fashion) also managed to be charming, and departed.

She stooped and entered the tent. "Captain."

Vane didn't seem to register her presence. His eyes were shut and he was curled on his side, motionless, the exposed stretch of leg facing up. Though the interior was not too hot, a glow of sweat shone on his forehead. A bowl of water and a rag lay near, and Eleanor settled down beside him, taking the rag and using it to swab his face and neck. The wound on his leg looked worse, shiny and purulent.

"Have you eaten anything?" she murmured, not expecting an answer. "What am I doing here," she asked herself instead. But Jack had clearly needed some rest and there was no one else around offering assistance.

"Can you hear me? Captain Vane." She pushed a tangled lock of hair away from his sweat-sticky chest and saw the raised tattoo there, a circular brand with outward prongs, burned into the flesh.

"How did you get that?" she murmured. Many of the men who passed through Nassau had rough, self-inflicted tattoos; she'd seen all manner of facial striations, burns and scars, but this one was so uniform. Her fingers traced it unintentionally for a moment before she pulled her hand away, embarrassed by the moment of unwitnessed curiosity. She resumed dipping and wringing out the rag for application on his skin again. She hummed a little as she did so, to offset the oppressive silence. After a short time his body began to tremble. Eleanor didn't know if he was cold or hot, but she found a blanket and pulled it up over his torso anyway.

It felt strange to be sitting, tending to someone in this manner. She'd never done it. Once or twice she had gotten ill herself and Max had stayed by her bed, bringing her food, changing her linens, helping her dress. Eleanor considered that she had a solid constitution because certainly all manner of diseased individuals came across her path at the tavern, many with ailments they couldn't explain or name. No man of medicine was permanently stationed on New Providence Island, though some came and stayed for a time; it was generally considered a location too fraught with danger. Instead, there was a variety of dubious local women who practiced their own herbal medicines. Mr. Noonan's girls went to such with their complaints, but Eleanor had seen Max employing some of the wise woman's methods and thought frankly that the cures and tonics prescribed seemed more repulsive than the ailments themselves, though she had never interfered.

After a time Vane's shaking subsided somewhat and he lay still. She thought perhaps he had fallen back asleep but eventually his eyes opened fractionally and he looked at her with no apparent recognition.

"I brought you some fruit," she said. "You will grow weaker if you don't take anything to eat."

She moved the basket close and held out a slice of the mango, thinking it an innocuous offering, but his nostrils flared and he promptly gagged and knocked it out of her hand. Slightly offended, she sat back a little, baffled. "I suppose, like all men seem to, you imagine spirits alone are sufficient to sustain life."

He mumbled something that sounded like a profanity.

"Curse all you please," Eleanor said. "I doubt I have not heard it before. If you don't want fruit, tell me what you will eat and I will find it for you." _In my spare time, of which I have none_ , she added mentally.

Now he told her in slightly more enunciated terms what he would eat, and she couldn't help it, she felt a flush rising up from under her blouse collar at the words. "I don't believe you have the strength for that either," she said finally, mustering some self-possession. "Although I suspect if you can think of such things, then you are not close to dying."

He muttered something else and at first she assumed it would more be along that salacious vein but then she realized it was: "Have Rackham put the ship up for careening."

 _The man gives orders like I am one of his crew, expecting they will be followed without argument_.

Well, she would follow this particular order, only because it made sense. A slow _Ranger_ , whether it was trying to escape from pursuit or needing to gain ground on a merchant prize, was of no use to any of them. Eleanor inclined her head in almost sardonic acknowledgment of the instruction, but he had closed his eyes again.

That order could wait until tomorrow, however. She meant to stay with him until Jack returned.

Which the quartermaster did, by nightfall, only very slightly inebriated, thanking her profusely for the use of the rooms and for her attentions to the captain in his absence. Eleanor assured him it had been no trouble, which wasn't strictly true; though Vane had slept off and on for most of the day without a further word to her, she had chafed at the unaccustomed inactivity. Besides, she had gotten hungry, and ended up having to eat the rejected fruit, though that was no hardship as they were at the peak of ripeness and (she had thought) delicious.

She delivered Vane's instructions regarding the beaching of the ship and cleaning of its hull, wished Jack Rackham a good night and went on her way.

Anne Bonny, enigmatic creature, was slinking through the shadows as Eleanor left.

 _I would give much to know the inner workings of that woman's mind_. Though they had never exchanged more than a few words, Eleanor had come to develop for Anne a grudging admiration, partnered with a more deeply hidden feeling that if she had examined closely she would have admitted to be jealousy. That a woman could be all that Anne Bonny was: not only a deputy to one of the most notorious pirate captains in their sphere, but canny, fierce, and a deadly assassin on the strength of her own name. It was threatening. To Eleanor, at least. The brothel whores would occasionally titter and speculate on Anne's physical attributes or sexual proclivities, calling it unnatural for a woman to want to work alongside a man, to participate in the raiding of ships and killing of crews; they wondered how she could do it. Eleanor, having had her own comparatively mild level of ambitions criticized for being unwomanly, was sensitive to such negative assessments of Anne's character and mental condition, but she had never bothered to rebuke the whores, who spoke more often from a place of ignorance than malice. Yet Eleanor truly did wonder how Anne had achieved her place in the society of New Providence; so little was known about her past, less even than was known about Charles Vane's.

As she nodded to Anne passing, though the other woman barely acknowledged the gesture and ducked her own head under her hat, she decided she would presume upon her acquaintance with Jack Rackham and see if she was able to use him to glean more information about both Anne Bonny and Captain Vane. Swords and fists might be their weapons; knowledge and information were hers.

Additionally, Eleanor was going to enjoy attempting to weasel details out of Jack Rackham, who often played the fool in public but in whose eyes she'd seen plenty of native intelligence. Inclined to theatrics though he might be, one did not attain the position of ship's quartermaster by being an idiot. She suspected there would be a lot for her to learn about him as well.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Short backstory. I'll return to the main narrative in the next chapter and there will be no more time jumps._

* * *

 **The Making of Charles Vane**

 **Years 1690 - 1700**

He knew he must have had a father and a mother, once.

Mostly he tried not to think about that, but sometimes the thought burrowed into his mind regardless, like a persistent rat in search of food. He _must_ have had. Simply because he couldn't recall them with any clarity did not mean they had not existed.

The sea had always been first. He was a cabin boy at the beginning of his memory. Scrawny and small, smaller than the others, he fought for each scrap of food—each fouling chunk of meat, each diseased potato skin—at the bottom of his trencher. Whether or not he worked as hard as the others he didn't know. There were soaked storm-tossed stumbles across the deck. Endless scrubbing of stained boards and clothing and pots. Fitful snatches of stolen sleep in a hard rope hammock to the rhythm of others' snores. There was little rest.

Until Albinus came and took him off the ship, took him to the island.

Those early days on the island were the parts of his memories that dimmed again. He had been sick for a while, the sea still tossing around him when he lay flat and motionless at nights on the ground of a warm damp hut with the other boys and men. In the days they worked amid the greenery cutting and hauling trees, with no ocean breeze to offset the heat of the piercing sun. With all the fresh fruit they could eat and nothing else, Charles' stomach revolted. All night he lay on the ground and tried not to moan while his head spun singing the songs of the sea and his stomach ached from the glut of fresh produce. The mere odor of papaya and mango was sufficient to make him retch, but even that, after enough time passed, he would force past his lips because it was all there was. He stumbled and fell often in those first few days, partly from acclimatization to solid ground, partly from weakness, and someone usually kicked him in the stomach if he didn't scramble back up fast enough afterwards. He learned not to fall after that.

They were not encouraged to make friends amongst the workers and though Albinus, their master, did not seem to give special favors to anyone, they were always alert to ways they could please or anger him. Not that it seemed to make a difference either way. If they worked hard, they were allowed to eat and sleep. If they lagged behind, the older among them who acted as guards would abuse them until their performance improved.

Full moon after full moon passed on the island with no actual reckoning of time. The rainy season came, making the laborers doubly miserable as their wood-gathering became ever more troublesome, and they were perpetually in sodden rags and footwear. When boys died (which happened often enough that it was not an alarming event), their clothes were divided among the others for best fit, sometimes before the body of the deceased had a chance to get cold.

The older of them were chained. All of them were given tattoos, burned into their breastbones. The pain of the branding died quickly enough afterwards but Charles would never forget the stench of his flesh shriveling under the searing iron. It stayed in his nostrils, along with the overripe fruit. Sometimes he would waken himself in the night by his own gagging, unrelated to the stench of sweat and shit and piss that surrounded him from the others.

Yet he grew, somehow, in the years on the island. Not quickly, nor well. He was still smaller than the other boys about his age, thirteen or fourteen years. But eventually his body learned to tolerate the plant diet and sustain some growth from it, though he never had the appetite for eating that he had had aboard ship. The constant sawing, lifting and hauling of massive timbers yielded lean muscle on his frame and strong bones.

He scarcely spoke to anyone. There was little opportunity and no reason. His voice grew scratchy from lack of use and deepened without his taking notice. Physical urges manifested themselves and yet he hardly understood those either. There were men in the camp who made advances on the boys. Those who could not or dared not refuse, didn't. The nature of those interactions, always so out of balance between the strong and the weak, made Charles uneasy and he vowed he would not let himself be used in such a way. Once he felt a hand on him in the night and whether it was harmlessly intentioned or of a prurient nature he didn't wait to determine—he defended himself by nearly separating a finger from the hand with his teeth. After that he was left alone. There were easier targets. Charles Vane was one to leave to his own devices when possible.

The boys in the camp generally remained unshackled during the day, until they were judged to possess about the strength or aptitude of a man, or were otherwise known to be problematic. Charles had not attempted to escape, nor had he heard of anyone trying, but leaving the island began to occupy most of his thoughts.

There was no particular plan to formulate, and he did not involve anyone else. He just walked away, one morning when the sky was bland and white overhead and there seemed to be something in the air telling him to go. He didn't think about it. He walked. Past the latrines and alongside the stripped timber lanes, close to the treeline. Perhaps he was tramping deeper into the jungle forest, or even heading in a circular fashion back to the camp after a while; it was impossible to tell. He beat his way through the lush undergrowth for a long time.

And then the sea opened up before him, at first just white spots visible through the greenery, then suddenly the rolling, tossing waves coming into upon a grey sand beach strewn with seaweed. The scent of salt and brine struck him like a physical blow dealt. _Home._ For a few long moments he stood at the edge of the jungle, shifting sand under his feet, inhaling deeply of the ocean wind, listening to it stir the leaves of the massive palms above, looking out across the water he hadn't seen in so long a time.

Charles might have cried, except he had long ago learned, even before the labor camp, that displays of emotion were more likely to result in pain than anything else, and thus emotion itself was to be sublimated. He merely stood and gazed and registered.

And then he walked into the ocean.

It swelled up around his knees, then his thighs. Warm and rushing. He dove forward without hesitation, feeling the water sluice through and rip at his shoulder-blade-length hair, a mass of tangles. He had not been submerged in a body of water since his arrival to the island and for a few moments the sense of weightlessness was disturbing, unique, until his arms and legs remembered how to swim and sent him forward and up, breaking the surface. A wave rushed him and he went under, and up again, sputtering, his stomach churning with giddy energy. The ocean was reclaiming him as its lost son, to dispose of or keep him as it saw fit, he imagined. He floated for a while, then began to swim in earnest, putting distance between himself and the beach. Nothing but shifting gray in front, and once he was past the breakers, only a vague shoreline behind.

Charles concentrated only on breathing, on swimming. There was nothing else to consider; not wonder what kind of progress he was making or what was going to happen once he tired, not think about the possibility of surviving the ocean but being brought back to the camp in the end, which, when he did think about it, he decided he would let himself sink first. His muscles, particularly those in his arms and shoulders were quite used to hard and consistent motion and propelled him through the water. He swam until he hardly knew what he was any longer: a sea creature that the crew used to describe when they wanted to scare the cabin boys, or a wretched length of fallen timber with kelp for hair trailing down his back.

He had grown accomplished at measuring the passage of time through the sun's path in the sky, but the sun did not make an appearance over the course of the day and made him less certain, trying to make out its position when he was floating and resting, of how long he had been gone.

It might have been late afternoon when he saw shoreline in front of him again. Possibly the same island he had worked so hard to escape, his instinct warned him. But it was his new goal and he pressed on, seeing sand underneath the glassy water long before his feet were able to touch it. If in fact the same island it was an entirely different shoreline, seen up close, with a flat pristine beach and a distinctive cliff off to the left.

Charles staggered, falling several times, up out of the water and sank to his knees on the warm sand. His body felt impossibly weighty, his rags of clothing coming apart at the seams. He ripped at what was left of the shirt and pulled it off, casting the scraps aside. His footwear had disappeared in the ocean at some point; they had been too big for him anyway, and his feet were well-callused.

He lay for a time, panting, on the shoreline, while the water lapped at his toes. A few gulls circled overhead, in and out of his sideways field of vision, squawking now and again. He recalled how they used to chase the ship anywhere near land.

When his breathing had slowed to a normal pace he pulled himself up off the sand and crawled, shakily, towards the bushes, where he lay down only intending to rest some more but soon falling into a nervous sleep. He awoke to find his trousers dry and brittle with sea salt, his mouth parched from lack of moisture. It was late evening. The clouds had broken up and the sun was creating color low on the western horizon. His search for drinking water would have to wait till the next day. At least there were the ubiquitous edible fruits and of these he found one and ate it without enthusiasm.

But, watching the sun set over the ocean, and though his current freedom was a fragile thing that might at any moment be snatched back from him, Charles felt something that was perilously close to happy.

He spent several months in uninterrupted solitude on that island (wherever it was, on whatever part that it was), until one day a pirate ship came by on a regular route, and he risked the swim out to where they might see and rescue him, and one day they, at last, did.

On board that ship, he learned what it meant to be a good pirate; to be strong, to instil fear in the hearts of others, to dispense justice swiftly and mercilessly, to keep emotion at bay—many of the things he had started learning on Albinus' island. He learned how to fight with cutlass, with pistol, with fists. Though not the tallest in stature on the ship, as one of the younger crew and deprived of proper nutrition in years past, he became one of the most ruthless. And he studied, teaching himself to read maps and learn navigation through persistent exertion of willpower. Though it was undeniably tedious at times, he kept at it until he judged himself competent. He had no clear goal in mind other than to surpass the performance of those around him. His time on the island had left him in many ways uniquely suited to mastering skills of warfare and survival, yet from the ways of humanity he was estranged, lost. It was said among his first crew that Charles Vane was more likely to give you a new scar than a smile. Anxious to see him made a man, the good-natured group of crewmembers had him initiated in the ways of love with his first whore by the age of seventeen, and yet reportedly the encounter was carried off with dispassion. It wasn't a lack of interest, the whore had said—certainly there were men enough who preferred their own gender—but a lack of feeling. Eventually the crew stopped trying to draw Vane out and accepted that he would never quite be one of them, that though they had saved him and fought with him and plundered ships at his side, he was not their brother. He was in it for himself. He did not know how to sacrifice himself for another's cause, and that was not something that could, in the end, be taught.


	4. Chapter 4

**1712**

When Eleanor took the opportunity to return to the beach several days later, the first thing she spotted, far down the sands away from the wharf, was the dark and crusted hull of the _Ranger_ out of the water for careening. It was angled on its side and tied with ropes that creaked every time a strong wind shifted the massive palm trees that were bearing the load. Jack Rackham was trotting up and down from place to place, monitoring the various crewmembers at work.

It was with some surprise that Eleanor also noted the presence of Vane, higher up on one of the grassy bluffs. He was sitting, a cane or stick of some kind in hand, surveying the work going on below.

Eleanor began to make her way up the rising dune toward him. Switch-like grasses caught at the fabric of her dress as she moved, and the wind blew tendrils of hair free of her braid. She paused on the incline, a few steps away. "Are you quite well enough to be out here?"

One of his shoulders twitched in something resembling a shrug.

"You are fortunate to recover so quickly."

At that his expression darkened somewhat. "I am not ready to return to my ship."

"Nor is your ship ready for your return," she pointed out, turning to look at the distant vessel, where Rackham was shouting and gesticulating at a crewman. "It is in need of a good cleaning. As, I might add, are you."

He was still in the blood-stained clothing he'd likely been wearing the day they were last on the water, but he glanced down at himself as if surprised by such an observation. "Are you making an offer?"

"A recommendation," she said. "You smell something less than fragrant. If a dip in the sea doesn't suit, I could easily be persuaded to loan you the use of a tub from the brothel."

"You can't be easily persuaded to do anything. Does the brothel offer come with a whore?"

"That," she said, "you would have to pay for."

"I haven't seen any I fancy," he said casually, "except the dark-skinned one, she might be worth a consideration." His gaze was sharp when he said this and Eleanor didn't miss the speculation in it. She didn't need to feel defensive; she and Max were in the past, yet she struggled to come up with an unconcerned reply. She did still care about Max as an individual, perhaps that was why the idea of Vane using her particularly gave her qualms. She didn't think he was at all the type of man to be concerned about whether or not he inflicted pain on his bedfellows. At least that was her impression so far.

"What are you worried about?" he said, the corner of his mouth turning up just a touch.

"Nothing." The lie felt silly and she amended, "The girls are an important part of business on this island. I don't wish any of them to be...ill-treated."

"And you think I would ill-treat her?"

Eleanor couldn't meet his eyes when he asked the question.

"You should know," he said, after a few moments of silence with the wind soughing in the grasses and the distant sounds of the laboring men below, "that I only ill-treat those who wrong me first."

"I see," she said, but wondering if the _Ranger_ 's crew would swear to the truth of such a statement.

There was silence between them for a short while until she said, "I must return to my office. The sun will burn my skin at this time of day."

He inclined his head, perhaps in acknowledgment but it had a feel of granting permission. It spurred her into saying, "Do avail yourself of our services, if you are up to it," (whether she meant ablutionary or those of a more orgiastic nature, she wasn't herself certain) before starting back down the bluff. She didn't look back.

Later that night, Rackham and some of the _Ranger_ 's crew members—their captain notably absent—filed into the tavern for food and libations, looking weary. _Good_ , Eleanor thought, _if they are tired perhaps no one will have the energy to start trouble_. Then again, that was also often precisely where trouble originated. She would have to keep an eye on them. Catching Jack's attention, she subtly invited him over to the bar counter.

He sauntered over, touching his forehead in that insouciant manner of his by way of greeting.

Eleanor unstoppered a flask and poured two inches of liquor into a bamboo cup. "From me," she said. "Did the men get a good deal done today?"

Jack swirled the contents around and took a long drink before answering. "After complaining about the heat, yes, a fair bit. More when the captain came by to watch."

"I was surprised to see him there." Eleanor poured her own serving (mainly to induce a feeling of conviviality; she never drank very much) and re-stoppered the container.

"Why's that?"

"I thought he wouldn't be well enough yet."

"He is constitutionally sound," Jack said vaguely.

"And where is Anne—Mistress Bonny—tonight?" She realized as soon as it was out that she shouldn't have asked, or at least phrased it differently, because Jack's wide angular brows drew together for a moment before he took another composed swallow of his drink, and he didn't need to say that he didn't know, because both of them already knew it.

Eleanor cast about for something else to talk about but nothing was forthcoming; she picked up a corner of her apron and fiddled with its fraying edge. Jack's drink was almost empty so she offered the flask again and he accepted another serving without a word, but his silence was not hostile, and she tipped her own cup upwards for a sip. Sometimes, it seemed, drinking was the only thing men could do.

* * *

The following morning, Max was waiting for Eleanor on the balcony outside her bedroom. "He wanted me to tell you."

Eleanor locked the door with one of her multiple keys before looking at the other woman. Max's face was guileless, serious. "Who?"

"Captain Vane."

"I'm not sure I want to hear the details." Eleanor started for the stairs.

Max caught her by the elbow, gently but firmly. "Wait. It is not as you think. It was very late last night when he came here. He asked for a bath. I felt—"

Eleanor pulled Max into a latticed window alcove so their voices wouldn't carry so much.

"I felt," Max continued, "that is unusual, some men want to wash after, most not at all, none before, they don't care how they stink, I am just a whore." Her nostrils flared with distaste. "Any case, I thought, _bien_ , I had a tub sent up, he took off his—" she gestured dismissively at her clothes, "—but not, you understand, in that way? And then he told me to wash him, so I was thinking, ah, now he is just trying to be not so... _previsible_. Easy." Max looked out the window for a moment, then back at Eleanor, her limpid, charcoal-rimmed eyes steady. "But he only wanted that. The bath."

Eleanor didn't know how she felt, when it shouldn't have made a difference either way. "How was the wound on his leg?" she asked distantly.

"Healing," Max said, after only the slightest pause. "But how did you know of it?"

When Eleanor didn't reply immediately, Max added, "It is none of my business, of course."

"I have no particular secrets to keep from you," Eleanor said, quietly.

"Perhaps you do, now. You and I, we are in the past, are we not?"

"Max, I have much work to attend to in my office..."

"Of course," Max said, with dignity. "I would not have kept you, only it was his command, and he did pay me."

Eleanor tried to smile in a lightly businesslike manner. She stepped out of the alcove.

"...Well," Max murmured.

Eleanor pretended she had not heard that last, and descended the stairs, very straight-backed.

She went directly to her office and sat at her desk and opened her books, but the numbers on the parchment blurred and refused to make sense. Mr. Scott appeared and hovered, and she tasked him with bringing her a cup of scalding black tea which, when it arrived, she drank so quickly the liquid burned her throat. The numbers in the book began to cooperate after the consumption of tea helped to clear her head, but then she reached too quickly for the inkpot and spilled half its contents across the surface of her desk.

"Fucking hell!" She mopped ineffectively at the spreading pool with her skirt apron, staining it unsalvageably in the process.

Mr. Scott, standing by, rescued the overturned pot and a few small stacks of papers. "Is everything all right, Eleanor?"

She fanned her face in frustration with one hand and with the other tugged at the top button of her blouse. It was always warm, but today the spacious room felt unseasonably so. "Mr. Scott, I'm going for a walk," she said crisply, although she had had no such intentions moments before. "Please make certain that the shipment of powder kegs that came in on the _Defiance_ yesterday morning are properly inventoried and stored. We need more barrels of rum brought up to the tavern before tonight, and Mr. Noonan had some issue or other that he wanted to speak to me about, if you could deal with him as well."

"Of course, but—"

"Have a good morning, Mr. Scott." She circled round the desk and brushed past him, out the door and into the bright outdoors. Oh fuck it, she had meant to fetch her cap but she wasn't going back now. Eleanor strode out into the street and down, ignoring the stray looks she received from passersby.

She walked (or marched, really, because she didn't know how to stroll) through the streets of town for a while, but found her mood was little lightened and her head no less confused by the activity. Whatever she was looking for, it was not here, in these piles of sand and wood. She turned back towards the water, the place she had always found comfort as a child.

At the edge of the wharf Eleanor sat like one of the men, letting her legs hang over the side of the dock. Some fishermen in the vicinity stared curiously but she ignored them as she had the townspeople, and eventually they went about casting their nets and leaving her alone. Gulls squealed and circled, looking for food scraps.

Gazing into the water for a time calmed Eleanor, as she had known it would. She picked at the rough wooden boards under her splayed hands with her fingernails, stained black from the ink.

She heard someone coming up behind her, slow steps on the boards, but didn't look up.

"You're the one who needs a bath today," Vane observed.

Eleanor gazed at the water, which would be warm but she imagined as deliciously cool anyway. She did not think she could ignore the stares that would be provoked by her jumping fully-dressed into the harbor, however. Some things just couldn't be done in view of others.

He eased himself down beside her, and she heard his breath catch. If his leg was still bothering him, it was just as well the ship would remain beached for a week or more. She looked at him sideways. He was wearing a loose linen shirt and pants, neither of which were blood-or-ink-stained. His tanned jaw was tight. She considered bringing up the topic of Max and last night, but decided she didn't want to talk about that.

"When the _Ranger_ is back in the water, take me out on her," she said instead, on impulse, watching his face.

"No," he said without expression.

"Why not?"

"You know why not."

"I know you're the captain and can do as you please."

"Because you have a cunt, that's why."

"So does Anne Bonny and she's allowed—"

"First of all," he cut her off, turning to look at her, "she's not _allowed_ anything, she earned her place on my ship. Second, I know you're about to say you could do all the things that she can, but that's not true either."

"I wasn't about to say that," Eleanor said crossly. "I've never had the opportunity to slit a man's throat while he's sleeping, like she's supposed to have done, but if I did, I think I would be quite good at it."

"You _think_ , that's the problem."

"Such things were not part of my otherwise extensive education."

"You are a privileged little bitch," he said, without rancor.

"Yes, my father has worked hard and has money. Am I meant to apologize for that? Does it offend you that I don't have to chase ships around the bay for my living?" She felt heat rising around her neck that had nothing to do with the sun beating down on it, and then it occurred to her she might have gone too far drawing the direct comparison between their lives, but she _wasn't_ sorry, honestly.

"Your father," Vane said, "sits on his fucking velvet-shrouded ass, drinking whiskey that my men— _my_ men—risk getting a face full of cannon blast to get to him safely. And speaking of asses, your precious white one gets to sit and count all the coin he makes while if any trouble comes your way, you scream and your bloodhound Mr. Scott will come running."

Eleanor couldn't decide whether or not to be angry with this assessment. It wasn't completely untrue, after all; especially the part about her father.

"Will you teach me?" she asked.

"Teach you what?" His voice was irritated.

"To do things I haven't learned." _Things I can't learn from books_ , she thought, _or I would have by now_.

He made a snorting sound. "That could be a long list."

"I have specific requests in mind."

He squinted sideways at her into the sun.

"I want to learn how to use a sword. And a pistol."

"If you need someone killed, better just tell me who." He didn't bother to modulate his voice even though a boat was unloading behind them, the boards vibrating under the weight of multiple sets of feet.

"It isn't that." Eleanor glanced over her shoulder, self-consciously. "It is out of concern for myself."

"Hire a mercenary if you want protection."

"No," she said, frustrated. It seemed no one would ever comprehend her need to acquire knowledge on her own account. "What I want is the use and understanding of common weaponry for my own defense."

He was quiet for a moment or two. "I won't do it for free."

Of course I will pay you. Well," she emphasized, in perhaps an unconscious imitation of Max's earlier description of the money that had changed hands the previous night.

"I like exact numbers," he said. "It might be we have different ideas as to what 'well' constitutes."

"Doubtful. As I have been conducting business with pirates for a long time now, I trust I have a good grasp on their financial expectations."

He lifted a shoulder, granting her that.

"Moreover, you currently find yourself with a break in your regular schedule. The _Ranger_ cannot possibly be ready before ten days..."

"Seven if they work hard—"

"And you are not completely healed."

"Close enough," he growled.

"Morning will be the best time of day for our meetings," she continued. "Before the heat becomes too much."

"I like to sleep in the mornings."

"Well, for the time being, I'm paying you not to." Eleanor swung her legs back on the dock and stood up.

"No mornings."

She was used to tactical maneuvering. "Mornings. I learn what I want. You get—" she named an amount slightly less than she was prepared to pay, " _and_ all the rum you can drink at night. Only you—not all the crew."

"Done," he said, after making her wait for half a dozen heartbeats.

"Let's begin at once." Eleanor held out a hand, not sure if it was meant to help him up or for him to shake it. He looked at it for an instant, straightened his good leg and got himself up on his own, tossing his hair out of his face and meeting her eyes, levelly.

 _You'll ask for my help someday_ , she thought, giving him a tiny smile, _and I may just not give it to you._

He gestured with his head for her to follow him then, and she did, disliking to trail behind, but she had asked for this, after all, she was paying for this—perhaps she would end up paying far more than she imagined, but that was tomorrow's problem. Next week's problem. He would be back on his ship by next week in any case, if he got his way, and she would be the more experienced.

They headed away from the town across the bluffs, where the winds whipped up high, then tracked back down a path that led eventually to a sheltered cove whose shore water was thick with white spume. On the thin strip of beach, Vane turned to her and extracted a pistol from his belt, holding it up between a thumb and forefinger at either end. "Muzzle-loading flint-lock," he said, tersely. "Misfires half the time, so you can play some good bluffing games if you like that sort of thing, still, don't point it at anyone you won't mind being dead. Won't hit anything far off." He gave some further details of the mechanisms and functioning, demonstrated a shot, and gave it to her to try.

"Stop holding it like a woman," he said, watching her handle the weapon.

"Sorry," Eleanor said, taking a firmer grip. "It is heavier than I imagined. What should I shoot at?" She vaguely gestured at a palm tree trunk in the distance.

"Something in range." He leaned over, took hold of her right wrist and brought it back in the direction of a much closer piece of driftwood on the shore. He lined his arm up on the outside of hers, stepping in close behind her. "Don't fire just yet."

She closed one eye, and then the other, to see which was better. "Why not?"

"Hold it for a minute. Your arm is shaking."

"It's _heavy_."

"I wager if it was a bag of doubloons you'd be all right—" He let go just before she jerked her elbow back, intending to drive it into his ribcage. He responded by twisting the gun out of her wrist. For a few seconds they glared at each other, equally angry, and he rasped, angling his face toward hers in a dominant way, "You going to do what you're told or not?"

She blinked first. His eyes were the color of the turquoise cove water but stormy. She nodded once.

"Hold the fucking pistol steady then!"

Eleanor tried, taking aim at the driftwood again and holding the weapon out at the end of her arm, though she couldn't tell whether it was still enough to please him. Probably not, since it was bobbing.

Beads of sweat began to form on her forehead with the effort. After an undetermined period of time he told her to fire and she did. The driftwood remained unscathed, although she'd hit the patch of sand in front of it. Resisting the urge to rub her aching muscles, Eleanor passed the weapon back to its owner. Vane re-belted it and then reached for her hand, running his fingers over the still ink-discolored skin, applying firm but gentle pressure to her wrist and forearm. She stood motionless, accepting his touch, her nostrils filled with his close presence of sun-aired linen, smoke, and the leather of his wrist bracers.

"We do this every day," he said. "Longer each time, every day."

"All right," she said. "What else?"

He nudged his foot between her legs at the fabric of her dress. "Get rid of this."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not teaching you to swordfight in a fucking skirt."

"What alternative do you propose?" she demanded indignantly.

"You know I already know what's under there."

"Legs," Eleanor said. His warm hands, curse them, were starting to work a pleasant feeling back into her arm.

"Right."

"I am not in the habit of wearing men's clothing."

"So have them made. Or borrow from Anne. She may be a mite smaller than you," he said, matter-of-fact and not with any obvious mocking evident but she was unable to keep from stiffening anyway.

She pulled away. "If this is enough for today, I must be getting back to work."

He glanced up, marking the position of the sun. "Suit yourself, Mistress Guthrie. Be here tomorrow morning, and bring those breeches, or you'll be training in your petticoat."

Eleanor chewed on her bottom lip, issued the tight smile she'd been reserving for him lately and swung about, preparing for the hike back up to town.

Mr. Scott had dealt capably with the tasks assigned, and did not question her further as to her absence, nor did he ask for details when she informed him she would be missing for periods of time within the coming days. He only requested that she let him know if there was anything she needed particular help with, and she agreed.

After dining on a quick lunch, Eleanor sent for Anne Bonny, without much hope that anyone would be able to produce her, for the woman was rarely seen in daylight. She was not participating in the careening of the ship with the rest of Vane's crew, unsurprisingly since it was not a job suited to her skills.

Rackham found Eleanor later on in the evening, asking what she needed from Anne. When Eleanor explained that she wished the lending of some clothes, he seemed dubious, but shrugged and said he would certainly convey the request.

Eleanor went to bed wondering if she was going to be forced to cavort on the beach in her undergarments as Vane had warned, but in the early morning, outside her door were the requested trousers. They might have been loose on Anne but they were ridiculously snug on Eleanor, she discovered when she pulled them on, and she had never felt anything as strange as the sensation of both legs encased in leather from top to bottom. She marched around the room in them for a while to accustom herself to their feel, putting on a skirt overtop before going out.

The sun was just beginning to creep up the horizon by the time she reached the cove, but Charles Vane was already there, smoking a cigar on the beach, his forearms on his drawn-up knees as he looked out over the small bay. He glanced at her, at her outfit, did not say anything, and she didn't mean to give him the chance. Taking a breath for courage (she was no coward, but at no point in her life thus far had it occurred to her to remove any item of clothing in front of a man, on a beach, outside in the air) Eleanor unbuttoned the skirt at her back and shucked it off to the ground, revealing her leather-clad legs.

"Mm," he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

She told herself if he dared comment on the tight fit she would pluck the cigar from his mouth and extinguish it in his face.

He got up and extracted one of the two swords at his waist. "Truth is," he said, after a moment of deliberating, "you can be as good with one of these as anyone's ever been and a bullet will still put an end to all of it. So. It's not about learning anything fancy. Just be able to use it without looking a fool. Know where to stick it."

The captain handed her the sword, taking another drag of smoke, and withdrew his own, using it to tap on the insides of her boots. Eleanor looked down.

"Feet apart. Balance. Or you fall on your ass the second you swing."

She shifted to a wider stance.

"Make a smaller target," he said, turning his fingers in the air. She swiveled obediently sideways.

He brought his sword up and tapped the blade of hers, not hard, but it flew out of her hand anyway.

"Hang on to it!" he said, with a touch of impatience. "Not going to do you any good halfway down the beach."

Eleanor scrambled to pick it up and tightened her grip around the hilt, determined to remember, to improve. If willpower could accomplish that for her, she was going to succeed. He gestured for her to come at him. She slashed. He parried, but said, "Good. Too many beginners try to bring it down from above. It's not an axe."

"I _have_ watched swordfights," she pointed out. "Some of them right in my tavern."

"More than likely those ones were drunken, you shouldn't be taking any education there."

"Your crew are usually involved," she muttered.

"I wouldn't go to them for education either, except Jack or Anne; they could teach you a few new tricks."

"Maybe I'll show them what I've learned."

"Maybe you won't."

She made a cautious attack which he blocked again with no apparent effort. "I don't have to listen to you in my free time."

He tripped her.

It didn't hurt much, though sand could be surprisingly resistant, but she stared up at him, legs and arms tangled like a fallen deer in the momentary shock of it—yet she had still managed to hang on to her sword.

"You weren't paying attention." He stared down at her, blocking out the sun for a moment.

Eleanor eased on to one hip. He bent and casually brushed sand off her backside. She started indignantly but he hauled her up, set her on her feet, and said into her face, "You're mine for the duration of our engagement. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes," she said, thinking sullen thoughts.

"Carry on."

Until the sun was high they worked with the swords. Eleanor's head swam trying to remember and employ all Vane's terse commands and corrections: keep your shoulders down, no big movements, tuck in your elbows, don't signal with your eyes. By the end of it she was so tired she knew she was making clumsy mistakes that had already been explained to her, but her body wouldn't cooperate any longer. Yet she persisted. Eventually, almost abruptly, Vane called a halt to the practice and told her to sit down, which she did, gladly; her legs felt like congealed jelly.

They sat in the shade of a giant palm without speaking. Vane pulled out the stopper from a bottle—where had he gotten the bottle from, she wondered—with his teeth and took a drink before offering it to her.

She drank, scarcely tasting what it was; not water, perhaps small beer, but it restored some moisture to her dry mouth. She passed it back, and they both sat for a time and gazed out over the bay.

"You worked hard," he said eventually. Eleanor felt warmth steal over her. She knew she had; she never gave less than her best, but it surprised her that it was pleasing to hear such words from him. But it seemed arrogant to agree, so she shuffled her boots in the sand and looked down.

"The kitchens are roasting a pig for tonight," she said. Her stomach had grumbled to remind her she had not taken any breakfast before coming out. "Will you come to the tavern to eat?"

"I may. I have other business in town."

"Remember the _gratis_ rum," she prompted, lightly.

He gave her a lazy sidelong glance. "Are you going to drink with me?"

She paused. Normally she didn't indulge in alcohol to any degree and she had certainly never been seen to participate with the customers beyond a raised glass and tiny sip for congratulatory or introductory purposes.

"Rackham and Anne, too," he clarified, "if you're squeamish about it being personal. I know how you hate personal."

"If it is not too busy, I will dine with you," Eleanor said. "And have _a_ drink." She emphasized the single article.

He rose then. "Coming back to town?"

"I think I will have my swim first," she said, hugging her knees and looking up at him cheekily. "Want to join me?"

"I've had my share of ocean swims," he said, absently.

"Please yourself," Eleanor said, though she had no intention of throwing herself in the water with abandon until he had left. She waited until he was out of sight beyond the trees and long gone, then, flushed still with exertion and excitement of the wanton nature of her idea, stripped off the breeches and raced into the warm salt waves. Her long blouse came to mid-thigh, long enough for basic modesty, though being white left nothing to the imagination. But she was alone, and the water felt wonderful. She scrubbed the remainder of the ink from her hands, swam and cavorted and laughed at her own ridiculousness. Soon enough she would have to return to buttons and manners and keeping a careful rein on her emotions; this moment was meant to be enjoyed.


	5. Chapter 5

Hot evening air, redolent with the scent of smoked pork, carried up into Eleanor's window as she stood at her mirror fixing her hair. Bathing in the salt water had given it texture, and despite her efforts at twisting it up tidily, ringlets were springing out around her ears and at her temples.

She had changed earlier into a cream-and-gray striped skirt with a fresh blouse and corset, and put on a favorite necklace. Now, though she rarely troubled to do so, she dipped her finger into a small cosmetic pot of carmine paste and used it to give color to her lips. Then she stared into the mirror for a while, wondering why she'd bothered.

Oh well, she could do as she liked, and for tonight it pleased her, the way the vibrant teal necklace contrasted against her pale throat and the shot of crimson on her mouth. She gave a final pat to her hair, fastened her keys to her belt and strode towards the door.

No one downstairs seemed to notice the extra care she'd taken with her appearance, and Eleanor fell to work at once, commandeering a full tray from an overloaded maid before it could be dropped and sending orders back to the kitchen for more meat.

The tavern housed several private rooms off the main floor for impromptu parlays or dinner parties; one of these rooms had been set aside for Eleanor and the agreed-upon trio from the _Ranger_.

It was late by the time Jack Rackham and Anne arrived; Jack his usual ebullient self, where Anne's slouching posture read more distrustful than usual, if she were unsure whether she was attending in the capacity of a guard, or a guest. Eleanor didn't know either. She greeted them and showed them to their assigned room.

"The captain will be along shortly," Jack announced, as Eleanor offered them seats at the circular table with its pushed-up stools. "He had some affairs to manage."

"So he said. I hope you have both come hungry; I'm told the roast is delicious tonight."

Anne pulled off her battered hat, looking around the empty room. Her hair, deeply red, was beautiful if slightly untidy. She was looking defensive, so Eleanor did not comment.

"I am starving," Jack said, "and dry as the deserts of Africa."

Eleanor poured him several generous measures of rum, filling Anne's mug with less; her observation from previous visits led her to believe that, like Eleanor herself, the female pirate was not inclined to drink a great deal in public. Which made sense; a drunken bodyguard could be of little use.

One of the serving girls brought trenchers heaped with food; fire-roasted vegetables, fresh ripe fruit, warm crusty bread from the ovens, and steaming racks of pork ribs laid out. Jack congratulated Eleanor as if she had been the one in the kitchens preparing the food all day, and set about eating.

Vane appeared before the candles had guttered much lower. He walked in, quietly formidable, without offering any conventional greeting. Pulling out a stool on Anne's other side, he helped himself to meat.

Eleanor poured him a drink.

He eyed it and asked—"Where's yours?"

"I was waiting for you."

He gestured for a cup and took the bottle from her to fill it, then pushed it in her direction. He raised his expectantly and the other two followed. Eleanor hoisted hers and took a small sip.

With any one of them individually, she felt herself able to induce a conversation, but with all three attending to their food and drink, a laconic silence reigned. At last Jack came to the rescue. Mopping a piece of bread around the edge of his trencher, he remarked, "So, Mistress Eleanor. Preparing for a life of piracy, eh?"

"Hardly that," Eleanor demurred. "There are more than enough of you on New Providence as it is."

"Whence the training routine?" He cocked a rakish eyebrow.

Beside him, Anne sucked loudly on a length of rib before extracting it from her mouth to reveal the gleaming bone stripped of all fiber. Eleanor, temporarily distracted by this feral display, was further startled by the incongruity of Anne then using her slender fingers to lay the bone delicately on the table beside her trencher.

Eleanor had to consciously remove her gaze from Anne and return it to Jack Rackham, who had asked the question. "Well," she said, glancing at Vane for some help but she should have known he wasn't about to offer any. "I suppose I came to realize that parts of my education were neglected."

"Ah-ha," said Jack, somehow managing to make the utterance sound salacious. "So you took it upon yourself to beef them up, as it were, did you?"

"One must always strive for self-improvement," she replied, "mustn't one?"

He pointed his dagger, which he had been using to saw the pork bones apart, at her approvingly. "I quite agree. Don't you agree, Captain?" He squinted past Anne at the captain of the _Ranger._

"I'm drinking," Vane answered. "As you should be."

"I believe what the captain is trying to say," Eleanor said, refilling his empty cup with a practiced hand, "is that he feels it a pointless endeavor. Though it does not matter, as I did not hire him for his opinion." She raised her eyes to Vane's.

"You'll ask for it eventually," he said. "In the meantime, drink with me. Unless you're afraid of the effect it might have on you."

Tipping back her cup, Eleanor swallowed all its contents in a rush. "I am quite familiar with the effect of alcohol," she said in a stately manner. _On other people_. "Be assured it will not turn me into a cackling halfwit."

Several notches of the candles later, they had, between the four of them, put quite a large amount of spirits away. Anne had become even less communicative than usual (were such a thing possible), slouching on her seat and staring morosely at the wax pooling on the table top. Rackham seemed content to be passed out snoring in a corner of the room. Eleanor had wanted for some time now to throw one of the windows open and let in some fresh air, but she didn't trust her legs to convey her there, so she remained seated, blinking hard at the empty bottles in front of them, vaguely aware of Vane's presence across from her. Her lips were numb, and she bit the bottom one curiously. Her stomach felt warm and light as seafoam.

"Eleanor," Vane said. His voice always sounded like a growl. Strange, a shiver ran down her sides.

She focused on his face, though her eyes were feeling very uncooperative and wanted to roam about.

"Feel all right?"

"Fine," she said quickly. She wondered how she was going to get back to her rooms. It was a long way away. A very long way to go. Perhaps she could sleep here. No, no, that would not be fitting. If they left, she could sleep here. Rackham seemed comfortable over in his corner. She thought longingly of her bed. Her warm, soft, bed, in her lovely room with the darkness, or the moonlight, either way... "My bed," she said aloud, without meaning to.

"You want to go to bed?" he said.

"Yes." Was that the right answer? "No," she added, just in case it wasn't. Pleased with this ingenious bit of trickery, she smiled.

"Fuck," Anne muttered, startling Eleanor who'd forgotten she was there. She did not know what the word was in reference to. Perhaps it was a kind of code. She started to lean back in her chair, remembering just in time that it was a stool and there was no back to it. She nearly fell off.

"You deal with him," Vane said. "I'll deal with her."

Why was his face smoking? How odd. Oh, a cigar. The candle flame had blurred it. Eleanor blinked slowly, enabling her to see Anne rising from her seat, going over to Jack and kicking him in the ribs.

Eleanor felt like she should muster up some indignation, but it was hard. It was hard just to sit, much less be indignant.

"Get the fuck up," Anne was saying. "Time to go."

"Are you going," Eleanor murmured into her cup. It was empty. She reached for a bottle but Vane moved it out of her reach.

"That is _my_ rum, sir."

"You're going too," he said.

"I am not, this is my tavern." She watched as Anne half-dragged a partially awake Rackham out of the room.

"I'm not leaving you here for your precious Mr. Scott, or worse, to find. Can you walk?" He was at her side, suddenly.

Eleanor slid off her stool, straightening her legs. "I can completely stand," she said with dignity. "I am standing."

"Right. Where am I taking you? Upstairs?" He put an arm around her waist. It felt strong. She attempted a step. Her legs did work, they just had a hard time going straight.

"Yes. No, wait." She turned toward him and put a hand on his chest. For a moment she looked at her hand there. Her fingers could make out his heartbeat. He was alive, just like she was. Odd indeed.

"What?" he said, making her jump, his voice was so close.

She scanned his face, looking for understanding. "I don't want anyone to see me."

"You care what that lot thinks?"

"No. Yes."

"Stop doing that."

"I need—"

"To go to bed."

She nodded.

"You're going to hate me, tomorrow," he said, and put his hand around hers, still on his chest.

"I hate you today," she said.

"No you don't." The corner of his mouth turned up.

She shrugged, or tried to.

"Walk," he said, turning her away from him.

They got to the door.

She flinched, expecting a barrage of staring faces once it was opened, but as he escorted her across the main tavern floor towards the stairs, it was quieter than she'd expected. Flames were burning low, tables were largely empty; there were only a few still at the tables, hunched over their drinks.

She thought she saw Max drift by, a strip of blue lace and disapproval. Vane's arm was so tight around her she could scarcely breathe as she moved, but it was keeping her upright.

"Don't drop me," she said, stumbling on the steps, which were unexpectedly difficult to go up.

"I'm not about to."

Behind them, Mr. Scott's anxious voice, "Eleanor, are you—"

"I'm _fine_ , Mr. Scott."

Upstairs Vane tried her door handle and found it locked, as it always was, and she leaned against him while he said a foul word and fumbled at her waist. "Which fucking key is it?"

"It's there," she said.

"You want to sleep in the hallway?"

"Mmm."

He hissed in impatient menace into her ear. She rocked a little and frowned into his shoulder, and thrust her hand downwards between them to feel for the key herself, encountering his breeches. He almost dropped her and she let out a squeak of dismay.

"You just fucking grabbed—" he began.

"Found it," she said, breathlessly, producing the key. He snatched it from her and unlocked the door, pushing it open and bringing her in with him. The door closed behind them.

Eleanor's stomach still danced with warmth and light, her head spun. "My bed," she said. It seemed as if she had been yearning for it forever.

He brought her over to the bed and either let her fall or pushed her, it was hard to tell. She frowned, collapsing backwards, but it was so comfortable. She tucked her arms under her head and stared at the dark ceiling. She couldn't see him any longer, there were no candles alight in the room. The scent of rum was still strong about him, or maybe that was her.

"Training in the morning," he said. "Don't even think about not showing up."

"Sleep now," she murmured. Her tongue was getting heavy. She felt the weight of a blanket tossed over her and the pressure of his hand on her hip for a moment and then the room was silent and she assumed, but didn't really know, that he had gone.

* * *

It was no time at all before red morning light was burning into Eleanor's eyelids. Through some cruel trick of nature, the next day had arrived. And it hurt. She made small movements, and immediately each muscle argued against motion. What _had_ she been doing? Oh, swordfighting, and drinking. She recalled. She recalled what Captain Vane had said about hating him. Oh, yes. She groaned, producing a sound that was something less than human.

"You had a busy night," Max's liquid tones came from the chair beside the bed. She was backed by the window sunlight and her expression was unreadable. "Did you fuck him?"

"What?" Eleanor pulled herself semi-upright, running fingers through her tangled curls. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Max, please. Water...I have to get up."

She closed her eyes and tried not to think about the headache building behind them while Max brought her a drink. Warm and stale though it was, the water was a needed restorative and she swallowed until her stomach churned and reminded her she had to void liquid first. In her privacy alcove, she did so, then came back out and searched for the trousers discarded the previous day.

The angle of the sunlight shadow hitting the floor suggested there was no time to linger. Max watched with composed disinterest while Eleanor quickly dressed. She splashed water from the wash bowl in her face and groaned again when she saw the distorted reflection of her hair.

"Let me." With hands that were more sisterly than former lover-like, Max took her comb and began to restore it to order.

"I have to _go_."

"You know I came here only to tell you to be careful. You know? Don't think I am jealous."

Eleanor sighed, withstanding the gentle tugs against her scalp that actually felt good compared to the storm within the walls of her skull. "I can take care of myself."

"But you do not have the experience with men—not even good men—and he is not a good man, though he did not mistreat me." Max finished twisting her hair into a tidy knot and tied it with a strip of ribbon unwound from her own hair.

"Men are the same as us," Eleanor said. "They want power."

"They _have_ power," Max corrected her softly. "From the moment they are born."

Eleanor left—having forgotten to put on a skirt overtop her trousers—and ran almost the entire way to the cove, slowing only to a moderate pace when she was within eyeshot of the beach. Her heart burned, her head throbbed, and her stomach felt like it had in the early days on the ship crossing from England.

He wasn't there.

For a while she stood at the top of the bluff staring down at the beach, certain it was the sun shining in her eyes that was keeping him from her view, or he was behind a tree waiting to spring on her, or some such thing.

"Where in hell are you?" she said. Then she shouted it, because that felt better. But it did not produce Charles Vane. She put her hands on her hips and spun around in a circle, stared up at the benignly blue sky, kicked at the hummocks of grass in a childish manner. There was no response but the occasional call of gulls from the bay below.

She marched back to town, to the main beach, with less haste but a good deal of vexation building, before it occurred to her to wonder if he had even made it back to his own tent the previous night. After all, he had also had quite a lot to drink and, in the black early hours of the morning, anything could have happened in the stretch from the tavern to the beach.

Her anger was somewhat mollified by concern, and by the time she reached his tent she pushed aside the flaps and stepped in, not quite sure what she was expecting to see or hoped to see.

The sight of him with one of Mr. Noonan's naked whores curled up against his bare chest, was not it.

He had a pistol pointed at Eleanor now, too, that was the second thing she registered. He lowered it when he saw her.

"Get the fuck out," Eleanor said, jerking her head at the girl, who hesitated for a moment before Vane tucked the pistol back under a cushion and nudged her to obey. Eleanor sucked on the inside of her cheek while the wench grabbed her clothing and slunk out.

She waited with raised eyebrow for him to say something, but he only looked bland, and said, "It's late."

"You're fucking right, it's late!"

"You went to the bay first?"

"Yes!"

"Good."

She stared at him, uncomprehending for a moment.

"I told you to be there," he said. "Never said _I_ would be."

"You s—" Eleanor swallowed uncomplimentary words about his parentage.

"I don't break my promises," he pointed out. "When I make them. Come here."

"Fuck that." Though she did want to sit down. Her heart was still beating harder than normal and the blood in her temples threatened to pound its way through the bone. She dropped, woodenly, into a sitting position on a nearby cushion. "Why would you do that to me?"

"To see if you could follow instructions. Especially after the night like you had." He sat upright, leaning back against the bolstered wall, a hipbone revealed as the blanket fell away from his mid-section. She tried not to notice that he didn't care about this breach of modesty.

"I did tell you you were going to hate me today," he said, with a trace of a smile.

"The whore didn't help." Eleanor spoke without thought.

"That bothered you?"

"Not on a _personal_ level," she retorted, rolling her eyes. "Mornings are not time for such things!"

"Well, there wasn't any time for it last night either. Sun was half up before we got back here."

"Perhaps you should have just fucked her on the stairs and knocked on my door when you were done, then we wouldn't have had to waste any _time."_

"You know," he said, conversationally, "you have one hell of a coarse mouth for someone calling herself a lady."

"I am only saying what I see to be the truth. I'll be damned if I can't speak in any fashion I see fit, _or_ if I'll let a pirate dictate my language for that matter. It's men like you and yours who are responsible for my vocabulary anyway."

He pulled out a jug and helped himself to a long drink, then offered it to her.

Eleanor winced, feeling a twinge of nausea from the smell of the spirits. "No thank you."

"It'll help that head."

"I never said there was anything wrong with my head."

"But there is, isn't there? And your mouth tastes like bilge water."

"Please stop, if you don't want me to be sick all over your tent floor."

"You can on the floor," he said. "Just not on the bed. Want something else to drink?"

"Whatever that is not liquor of one kind or another. If you are even on speaking terms with such a thing."

"Truly," he said, rummaging around in the blankets for his breeches, which he found and put on, "you have a tongue like a snake, Mistress Guthrie."

Eleanor lowered her head into one hand and pressed fingers against the bones of her face. The pressure felt good as long as it remained, but the pain returned as soon as she stopped. Vane was digging around in a crate and produced another flask, which he popped open and sniffed at. "Try this."

"What is it," she asked, on the point of weary surrender.

He shrugged. "Nothing fermented."

"You have some first—if it kills you...well, so be it," she muttered. She wanted nothing more than water and a place to rest her head. Maybe she would lie down here for a few minutes, until her head stopped pounding and her stomach quieted enough to let her get back up to the tavern. "Give me a cushion, please, I want to rest a moment."

"As you like," he said, kicking one over with the side of his boot. Eleanor dusted it pointedly, then curled around herself with her head against the pillow.

He tilted his head sideways and looked at her. "Will you just lie on the damned bed."

"No. I am not planning to stay. If you would bring me some potable water I would be grateful." She spoke with sedate articulation because it made her feel more in control of the moment.

He said something in some foreign language that more than likely wasn't flattering about _her_ forebears. And went out—she hoped—in search of her water.

Eleanor closed her eyes and told herself if she was ever enough of a fool to drink so much again, she would be sure not to get out of bed the next morning unless the tavern itself was on fire. She was certain that at least part of the headache was due to having gotten less than half of her normal hours of slumber, even if she still had the rum to thank for the rest of it. No wonder there were so many sermons railing against its consumption, she thought with drowsy exhaustion.

A boot prodded her awake, not ungently. "Thought you weren't going to stay."

Vane waved a vessel of water in front of her nose. Eleanor fumbled at it and drank thirstily. Her head felt somewhat better, though her muscles still ached from yesterday's exertions.

"It's midday," he said. "I have work to do. The men need supervision."

"Of course." She struggled upright, feeling guilty. She was not ill, after all.

"No difference to me if you're here. Might give the wrong impression if someone comes by."

True, that was the last thing she wanted, especially since some had already seen her accompanied to her rooms by Vane. Who knew what Mr. Scott probably thought. Eleanor got to her feet, tilting her head cautiously sideways before straightening fully.

"Tomorrow," he said.

"No more tests," she adjured.

They parted ways with relative civility.


	6. Chapter 6

In the following few days, Eleanor came to realize that she was enjoying the deviation from her customary routine. Her delegation of extra work to Mr. Scott was having no immediate negative effects on the business; he was handling the necessary duties capably, often with little direct guidance from Eleanor herself, since she was away in the mornings.

The lessons with Vane were physically taxing, to be sure; but her body rewarded her with greater stamina and coordination each session, and by sleeping more deeply and restfully at night. Her skin developed a light tan from the sun exposure.

The captain didn't give her much more than the occasional nod or word of affirmation, but she was not paying him for false flattery, and she came not to expect it. It was not in Eleanor's temperament to give anything less than complete effort in the way of self-improvement, and she was eager to learn. She listened not only to Vane's spoken advice but in the multitude of ways he taught without words; she came to recognize his shorthand, his way of communicating that often involved no more than the briefest of gestures, a sideways glance, a single-syllabled grunt. Whatever other opinions Vane might have formed of her Eleanor could not say, but she was determined he would not find her a dull student.

Nearly a full week of fine weather had passed when the morning dawned grey and dripping a peevish rain; nevertheless Eleanor scrambled out of bed with zealous energy, ready for the morning's engagement. Ever since the first time holding the pistol at arm's length and having it bobble precariously, she had been practicing in the tavern with a similarly weighted jug of alcohol, and planned to show off her newly-acquired control today.

She tied back her hair in a quick braid, put on the borrowed trousers (which were by now comfortably worn-in) and a long blouse with a thick leather belt. Flipping open her window shutters, she grimaced at the rain, but whistled as she prepared to go down to the tavern kitchen with the intention of consuming some fruit before leaving.

Anne pushed herself up from where she had been slouched against one of the floor-to-ceiling beams, startling Eleanor to halt in mid-step. "Not today," she said, in her low-pitched voice.

"I'm sorry?" Eleanor spoke reflexively, rather than with an actual lack of understanding, since upon seeing the messenger she had already deduced what the words were meant to convey.

"Not today. That's what he said. 'Tell her'," Anne enunciated, "not today."

Clearly she was not delighted at having to play envoy, and Eleanor could not blame her, though it was possible the notorious pirate thought carrying _any_ messages involving more than the point of her sword between another's ribs was a job beneath her.

She should perhaps have thanked Anne and let her be on her way, but a tinge of pique prompted Eleanor to persist, "Did the captain say why?"

"Well, no, he didn't specify, might be to do with the shitting rain, don't you think?" Anne spoke with less acrimony than the words suggested, which only caused Eleanor to smile.

"I can't believe our captain would shirk his duty on account of a slight mist," she said, lightly.

"Only 'e ain't your fucking captain, is 'e," said someone, looming in the doorway. They both turned their heads, startled by the unexpected interruption. Shadowed as he was, it was hard to determine the identity of the speaker. Someone big and male.

"Come inside," Eleanor said, maintaining a nonchalant tone. "We can't see you standing there."

"And babysitting you ain't his fucking _duty_ , neither." He stepped forward, and two others shouldered in behind him.

At Eleanor's side, Anne's swords hissed softly and simultaneously out of their scabbards.

"It's all right," Eleanor murmured, although she wasn't sure that it was. There had been genuine malevolence in the man's voice, not mere drunken slur or jesting derision.

 _Oh, shit_. She saw his face in the light now and recognized him—what was his name—a _Ranger_ crew member who'd been at the center of more than one tavern brawl, engendered by one triviality or another. Hamund. He was not one to need a reason to get in a fight. She'd seen his compatriots before also. Actually, the second one looked a bit sheepish. As well he might.

"Do you have a legitimate complaint, Mr. Hamund?" she inquired, using her stricter, no-bullshit tavernsmistress voice now. It was often enough to subdue a not completely dedicated troublemaker. She doubted it would be sufficient today, but men were so much like animals; show them fear at the outset and they would attack.

"Legitimate complaint, prissy little cunt says," he rejoined, his upper lip pulling back to reveal tobacco-scarred teeth.

"You're the fucking cunt," Anne muttered, clearly. Eleanor spared her a quick stare of disbelief for thwarting her attempt at tidily defusing the situation.

Hamund turned his gaze on Anne and leveled a finger in the air. " _You_ stay the fuck out of this."

"I'm already the fuck in it,"his shipmate retorted. "Half a breath later and I would have been gone, so don't blame me for your fucking bad timing."

"Let us all remain civil," Eleanor advised, though she felt like swearing just as much as either of them. "I take it, Mr. Hamund, that for some reason you are unhappy with the amount of time I am spending with Captain Vane? It is not as if you are losing income on my account. The ship is landed, regardless."

"You fucking him?"

She should have expected the question since she had already heard it from Max, but it set her back for a moment and she felt Anne was also waiting for her answer. "What possible difference could it make to you if I were?"

"We share everything," he said, exposing a larger section of diseased gums and glancing at his companions, one of whom snorted in appreciation. "If he's having you, he's not having you to himself, that's what."

As had no doubt been his intention, Eleanor was disgusted, but she remained calm. "Captain Vane and I are business partners," she said. "I suggest that you direct your efforts towards returning the _Ranger_ to seaworthy status rather than concerning yourself with my comings and goings. Else you might find that your captain and ship fall to the bottom of my list when I have lucrative work to assign. Have a good day, Mr. Hamund."

There was what seemed like a lengthy silence, while his eyes, rather eerily, seemed to be swallowed completely by the pupils, but after it passed, he turned and the others followed him out, kicking the doors as they went.

"That was fucking rude," Anne said.

"And him calling me a prissy little cunt and saying he wanted to share me was delightful, I suppose?" Eleanor was unable to hold back the acerbity.

Slipping her swords back into her belt, Anne adjusted her hat and shrugged her shoulders fluidly. "I'd get rid of him for a pittance, only his kind's like a pox pustule, pop up as fast as you pick them off."

This was close to the longest speech Eleanor had ever heard the other woman give, and she winced a little at the unpleasantly vivid simile. "Hopefully no picking will be necessary. If he has half a grain of sense he will take my advice." She hesitated, feeling the need to thank Anne for her assistance—even though it had not been directly accessed—but sensed the other woman would reject any offerings of gratitude.

Anne's expression read less-than-convinced that this would be the case. She began to move in measured, booted steps towards the door.

"Thank you," Eleanor said after her, at the last moment.

Anne's head turned, just enough to reveal a single light-blue eye, the other hidden by the battered hat. "Trouble," she warned, succinctly.

Eleanor waited until she was gone to release a breath of air. Well, there was always going to be trouble on an island whose population of transient and semi-permanent pirates outnumbered the local civilians ten to one; that was inevitable. Predictable, even.

She found some fruit from the kitchen, where the morning staff were beginning to tend to the fires, brought it to her office. Seating herself at her desk, she began examining the books that she had not time to peruse in the past week. Rain spattered against the shuttered windows, its background music soothing her mildly irritated spirit. She picked up her quill and began to make notations—some purposeful, some idle—on a piece of parchment. Before long, Mr. Scott's polite, easily identifiable knock sounded at the door and she bade him enter.

"I am surprised to see you here," he said. "I had not thought the rain would keep you from your new activities."

"Nor did it," Eleanor said, swallowing a final bite of mango before discarding the pit and licking her fingers, a childish habit she wouldn't have indulged in before anyone but her former teacher. "It was the captain's idea to postpone today. But, as it gives me the opportunity to catch up here, I am not arguing. Are there any outstanding issues?"

"Not of a business nature, no," Mr. Scott said, slowly.

Eleanor tipped her chair up on its back feet. "Please don't think of lecturing me, Mr. Scott."

"I only have been and continue to be concerned for you. The more so considering your father's long absence from the premises. I do not want to see you hurt."

"And you shall not. It is one of the very reasons I am learning even better how to defend myself."

"Not only your physical person," he sighed. "You do not do things by halves, Eleanor. I know that about you. You throw yourself into everything with such—fervor. It worries me. If you commit an error in judgment...This life we lead is very unforgiving."

"You sound like Pastor Lambrick." Eleanor let the chair fall forward with a thud.

"I do not mean to preach."

"No, you are good to be concerned. And I appreciate that you keep your eyes open. But I need you to trust me."

"It is not you whom I do not trust," he said.

She waved in a mollifying manner and dipped into the pounce pot on her desk, letting the fine cuttlefish-bone sand sift against her thumb and forefinger before spilling it back into the container.

* * *

Though the rain cleared by late afternoon, there was no sun that evening; dusk had come in an inky swirl of purple and blue-black. Eleanor observed the night from the covered veranda, balancing her elbows on the railing and leaning out so that the soft, still rain-scented breeze tugged at her skirts. Beyond her, the tavern was bustling as usual; all of the serving girls transporting food and drink. Someone was plucking a string instrument, virtually drowned out by the accompanying voices raised in bawdy song.

A light flared at street-level across from the tavern, and Eleanor's eye was caught for a moment, but it was a common enough occurrence—so many pirates smoked—or it could have been a lantern being lit. But after glancing back again she realized that the face it was highlighting was Anne Bonny's, the owner standing in the alleyway shadows.

Anne gestured with two fingers for her to come. For a moment Eleanor hesitated, the light and noise and heat behind her a promise of safety that held her still. But her dagger was in her boot, after all; it was only across the road, and her instinct told her Anne meant no harm, and what had been the point of the hours put in to learning self-defense tactics if they were never to be tested? Buoyed by self-confidence, Eleanor crossed the veranda and down the steps into the street.

She sensed someone behind her almost as soon as she'd moved out of the direct light from the tavern entranceway, but was not fast enough to turn before an arm circled her waist, crushingly tight, and a hand covered her mouth, and she was being roughly escorted the rest of the way into the alley. Anne disappeared from view, along with the light, before they got there.

Vane, she knew it was him because she could smell his particular tang of rum, smoke and menace. She also knew the feel of his hands on her, they'd grabbed her often enough over the past week in a corrective capacity. His hair brushed against her neck, tickling it, as he shoved her without gentleness up against the boards of the building. They were in darkness; some ambient light barely allowed her to see his face right in front of hers. He gave her a second shove and this time she gave a involuntary yelp of protest as the air threatened to leave her lungs.

"What the _fuck_ , Eleanor." His growl was more pronounced than usual, and his body, pressed against hers, seemed to be vibrating, but it might have been her own heart thudding against her ribs. The hand that had been covering her mouth had dropped to her throat, his fingers gripping with just enough pressure that she swallowed in bumping fear against them. She licked her lips reflexively—they were bitter—and ran through a quick mental assessment of possibilities. Her hands were immobile, pinned by her own body against the wall; her legs she might be able to move, she might be able to kick him, but to what end: simply infuriating him further seemed a poor plan.

She endured the discomfort and stared at him with all the cold dignity she could muster in that position; he'd have to let her down sometime, even if it was only to throw her to the ground and...do whatever else he had in mind, though she didn't _think_ that was part of his reason. Maybe it was. Her stomach churned. "You're hurting me," she uttered, getting the words out somehow.

"I told you," he rasped. "Not to fucking warn me. Remember?"

"I didn't—" she protested, grinding her head back into the wood in a fruitless attempt to create slack at her neck. "I didn't warn _you.._."

"You threatened my livelihood. In front of my men. What the fuck do you call that if not a warning!"

"I didn't mean—" Eleanor realized the invalidity of her argument almost as soon as she was about to make it. _He was rude to me_. It was too ridiculous to say. She wilted a little internally.

"I'm sorry," she said, quietly, past his hand.

His eyes searched hers, looking for something. Something more than the words of apology. She stared back, uncertain, blinking. The pressure of his body on hers eased a fraction. She got one arm free, slid it up between them and rested her hand on his chest, just over his tattoo, not really sure why she did so.

He let go of her throat and swore volubly, then pulled away from her enough so they were just standing face-to-face.

"You're right," Eleanor said, biting her lips to quell their tremor. "What I did."

"Don't fucking think you're forgiven."

But he seemed to be making a visible effort to be calmer. She rubbed the skin of her wrists, working blood back into the one that had gone numb. Her neck might have bruises tomorrow.

The tavern doors banged open, spilling light and noise and patrons outward, and he took her arm and shoulder much less roughly and turned her deeper down the alley. She walked silently, letting him lead her down its length until it abruptly came to a dead end.

"Fuck it," he said, pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

Eleanor was both too numb and startled by the speed with which everything was happening to react. The kiss wasn't brutal; it turned almost tentative after a moment, as if he was realizing that she wasn't quite certain what was even occurring. He let go of her again, muttered something under his breath.

She had—uncharacteristically, perhaps—nothing to say, and stood rooted because for the moment her equilibrium seemed nonexistent.

An eternity passed. It was only a few moments. "You need to go back in," he said, holding out a hand.

 _A fine time for you to turn gentleman_ , the part of her that was still Eleanor thought distantly. Could he really have the temerity to imply it was unsafe to be out when the only person who had accosted her was himself? She ignored the inelegant offer of escort.

He exhaled and took her wrist as it hung inert by her side. She moved then, only because her body seemed betrayingly out of sync with the state of her mind, remembering its trainer instead of its recent insults, out of the alleyway with him and back to the tavern where they both stopped.

Eleanor started up the steps without looking back at him. There was nothing to say. Or too much to say, but nothing that could be said tonight, in the dark, in the street. She tugged at her hand, still without looking, and it slipped free of his. He said her name: a plea, a protest, a prayer, it could have been any of those things but she was not listening. She put a hand against the solid wood of the tavern door and pushed inward, stepping through and letting the door swing shut, hearing behind her it bounce back and forth a few times before settling completely still.


	7. Chapter 7

**[From the Daybook of Eleanor Guthrie -** **First entry, later torn out and held to the fire of a candle]**

 _I can scarcely think what to put down on this paper; my mind is a jumbled mess of thoughts and emotions I can hardly even begin to enumerate. I, who so value being in control of my feelings at all times! Mr. Scott was right to be worried for me; even if my person is not in danger, my mind is at risk, under attack. I scarcely feel I can detail what happened a few days ago: to put it down here seems too real, should I not keep it locked within my memories? Yet if I do not express myself in some fashion I will go mad. He was so angry, but then he kissed me, and it was not an act of violence, he stopped almost at once when I could not respond. I would never have imagined he would do such a thing. Or would I? There might have been moments where if it had happened, under different circumstances, I might not have minded so much? (Though it shames me to admit, these words are not for any eyes other than mine.) If he had told me what he was thinking, I might have been able to determine how I felt about what happened, but we did not speak and he left without giving me the opportunity. Now he is back at sea for the foreseeable future and I am here, meant to carry on with work as always. And I wish I could truthfully say that I felt the same and nothing is different, but I do not, and it is. This is perhaps what they meant, Max and Mr. Scott, well-intentioned both, when they warned me to be careful. I cannot focus on the simplest things. I feel people are watching me, that they know I am distracted, that they will take advantage. It is my greatest fear...that owing to my own personal carelessness I will come to be treated differently. That the respect or at least the acceptance of most who come through my doors (which I have fought to build these years) will evaporate, wash away with the sand as it sinks into the sea. I would give up any quantity of love to keep that, my image, though some might find it blasphemous...I do not know what is coming. I do not know if Charles Vane will seek me out when he returns—if he returns at all—or if I want him to. I do not know what I want, I only know what I do not. And what does he think of me? I can't help but wonder. Surely I am more than the 'prissy little cunt' I was accused of being? He will come back, if only to demand his pay for services rendered. I did not pay him before he left. A pirate captain keeps a good accounting._ _My heart is sore. I cannot say why—I have not been damaged—I am too strong for that, yet it is sore all the same. He has his vessel on which to sail away, his crew to occupy him, yet I am here...I am here._

 **[From the Daybook of Eleanor Guthrie -** **Second entry, left in place of the first]**

 _Today's weather was pleasant, despite the rains earlier this week. I spent the morning going through the ledgers a second time ahead of my father's scheduled visit three days from now. Everything seemed to be in order. I find I pine after physical activity and believe I may have to develop a plan of action if I am not to lose any of my new skills. I am not certain how to implement such a plan, however._

 _I must remember to check that the storage rooms are properly organized and in order before Father arrives. Last time he showed up unannounced and it proved most inconvenient for all of us, particularly me._

* * *

Watching her father sit at her desk with her books and writing tools spread out of in front of him made Eleanor feel more than a little twitchy. She folded her arms across her chest and stared out the window so that she would not pace in circles like a possessive animal marking its territory. He came so infrequently that, sitting there with his formal wig and his glasses at the end of his nose, his sharp eyes scanning over her records of the past months, he might as well have been a stranger sent by the Royal Navy, so out of place it felt to her.

An opened bottle of port sat on the black oak sideboard (of whose contents she had, uncharacteristically, already drank two measures, and it was barely noon.) The saw-edged leaves of the palms fluttered in the breeze, creating an illusion of sinuous motion along the curve of beach visible from the window.

Eleanor sighed without sound. Richard cleared his throat, a lengthy ratcheting noise that hinted at illness. She spared him a glance, only to realize he had looked up from the books and was gazing at her now with a speculative expression she knew meant he was going to begin a conversation she wanted no part of.

"How old are you now?" he asked. His way of beginning. She was fairly sure he remembered the year of his only offspring's birth. Probably, since she hadn't been a male child, a bitter memory for him.

"I will see my eighteenth birthday soon."

He tapped the pen on the edge of the pot to release the excess ink. "I have been thinking it is high time you were settled and on your way to starting a family. I don't expect to have many years left to dandle a grandson. Unfortunate that there is a shortage of potential matches on the island."

"I raise no particular objections to a theoretical, suitable mate," Eleanor said, "though, as you say, the island has yet to reveal any to me." _And it would be a unique man indeed that would please both of us_ , she thought, unable to help feeling a bit smug at the convenience of her position. "You should be aware, however, I harbor no especial desire to bear children."

"A wholly unnatural thing for a woman to say," he said, frowning. "I have tolerated your work here this long because I have had no other choice. And you have been an asset to me despite your sex. I will not pretend you haven't. You have a good head, attenuated though it is by a female heart. When your fertile years are over, perhaps you can return to work for me in some capacity, but I do not wish you to be wasting those years now."

"It is an idle point of discussion, is it not, when we have already noted the lack of marriageable men in these parts?" Eleanor craned her neck, standing on her toes because for just an instant a figure on the beach looked familiar and she wanted a better look, but no, it was only the briefest of impressions.

"Not idle," said Richard Guthrie, "if you travel to where you can find them. It turns out I have business for you to conduct in Port Royal. You and Scott can leave within a day or two; the arrangements have been made. I will be here in your absence."

"How long am I to be there?" Eleanor uncrossed her arms and placed them on her hips. No point in arguing with him when he presented her with a _fait accompli_. Besides, though she did not like having decisions made on her behalf and without former advisement, she couldn't deny to herself she had wanted a change of scenery. A brief ship voyage of two or three days (in addition to whatever diversions Port Royal had to offer), might be just what was required.

He waved a hand vaguely. "A few days to attend to business, then you might stay on a few more, as you see fit. You'll be housed at the governor's mansion."

"You expect me to find a potential husband within a week?"

"Find one, not necessarily," he said. "But it is surely adequate time to conduct the beginnings of a search."

"I confess you surprise me, Father. I had not thought that you trusted me to decide myself upon a worthy mate."

"I do not, entirely; women being so easily led by superficial concerns. But there is Scott to advise you, and since you are not yet legally your own agent, ultimately I will still have to give my blessing to any suitor you might set upon, now or in the future."

She made a noncommittal sound.

"You have only your personal things to ready," Richard Guthrie said. "All else has been organized. Scott carries the details of the business transactions. The sloop is waiting in the bay."

"Very efficient," she said, with a touch of sarcasm.

He shuffled papers, lining their edges up into a neat, precise pile. "Safe travels, daughter."

She hated to walk away from the window, leaving him there sitting at her desk as though he belonged there, but there was nothing else to do. Affecting a curtsy, she said, "And a good day to you, father."

She withdrew, closing the doors to the sound of his scratchy cough.

In her rooms, Eleanor packed without much care, throwing together undergarments and skirts alike in a haphazard pile, hauling out the dusty trunk that had sat unused since the voyage from London and that now would be traveling south with her to Port Royal, Jamaica. If everything was currently waiting on her convenience, then it made no sense to dawdle, delaying the inevitable. They could sail this blessed afternoon.

She gathered all the clothing and accoutrements conceivably necessary for a fortnight's stay and filled the trunk with them, adding a small packet of gold doubloons. Mr. Scott would have her father's documents guaranteeing income for anything they might need while there, but she liked to carry physical proof of independence. If nothing else, bribes were often necessary—and a coin in one's palm was often worth more than a greater promised amount, particularly to people of lower morality (of whom there were plenty in their destination port.)

After a moment's thought she added a fancier dress that she almost never had occasion to wear, it being far too fine to waste on the tavern denizens. No doubt she'd be dining and drinking at the house of some gentleman or other most nights, requiring a more elaborate get-up than her everyday apparel. Or her host, the governor himself, might throw a party or a ball or find some other excuse to dress up.

Closing the lid, Eleanor sat on the trunk for a moment, rubbing her nose which itched from the amount of disturbed dust in the air, and looked around. At least she was now going to have something to distract her from thinking of the recent events involving Captain Vane. This change might be good for her.

She left the trunk; it was too heavy to move, she would send a man or two up for it later, and went downstairs, thinking of saying goodbye to Max—who was busy with a client, another of the girls informed her—so Eleanor headed directly for the wharf, where Mr. Scott was already waiting.

* * *

The journey to Jamaica took three days and was largely uneventful, although they hit a squall on the second morning that left Eleanor white-faced and sweating with nausea, unaccustomed as she was to such turbulence. The minimal crew—her father's men—were deferential when she did appear, though interaction with them was limited as she kept to her cabin after the storm.

By the time the ship docked in Port Royal she was glad to walk down the planks and touch solid ground once more. A horse and carriage took them through the streets to the governor's mansion, where slaves unloaded their trunks along with crates and barrelled goods sent personally by Richard Guthrie, intended for the household.

Eleanor endured the social necessities of greeting the governor—whom she had met once previously on his visit to Nassau—and his wife, a pleasant enough if overly effusive woman who couldn't have been more than a few years older than Eleanor herself, though her husband was easily in his forties.

Eleanor promised to join them for an evening dinner and was thereafter brought to the elaborate room in which she was to stay. With some relief she closed the door, pulled her hair out of its updo and flung herself down on the massive bed.

She was accustomed to a certain amount of luxury, but this room was superlative; filled with furniture made of imported woods, warmed by lace and lush fabrics of all dyes and hues. Utter opulence was reflected in every item that her eye lit upon. With a sigh, Eleanor undid her boots, with the idea of a quick nap before it was time to wash and dress for dinner. There was plenty of time, as it was only now late afternoon.

Later, refreshed by the nap and dressed in her best outfit, Eleanor went down to the vast dining room.

She had thought to be bored but the night started out quite pleasantly. The food and drink were inimitable; the guests, varied and intriguing (and there were at least three attractive young men in attendance, though she didn't get a chance to determine their marital status); the conversation, witty and fast-paced. She found herself struggling to keep up where public discussions of modern trends and current English customs were concerned, however, and that was her one point of discomfort in the night. It was impossible to stay on the cusp of current trends back home in the pirate capital of Nassau, where, as long as the rum flowed freely, it little mattered what people were reading or what the scandalous new style of hairdo was. Eleanor sipped her drink at such moments and hoped that no one noticed she had nothing to volunteer on these topics.

On her left was an elderly gentleman who was far more interested in his slab of marbled pork than in any discussion with her. The table companion on her right was one of the good-looking young men; polite and attentive, but seeming far too strait-laced to enjoy any number of colorful anecdotes from the relative backwater of New Providence Island—mainly what Eleanor had in her repertoire of conversation-starters. At last she raised her glass of port and remarked, smiling, "I noticed a great deal of structural damage to many of the buildings on our way up."

"Oh yes," he said. (Charles something was his name, which made her think of Vane.) "We had a severe hurricane pass through here only a few months ago."

"Fascinating," Eleanor said, wondering if she could bring him home to meet her father. What difference did it make who she brought home? For a moment his expression turned odd and she thought she might have sounded too droll. She swallowed a sigh and smiled reassuringly.

His forehead cleared. "They are, er, still in the process of re-building."

They chatted further about a few more trivialities. Eleanor drank more port, appreciating the way it made everything tolerable. The memory of her drinking session with Vane, Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny came to mind and she reflected how much more civilized this occasion was, though arguably less entertaining. She had no idea what she was discussing with her companion, but she made sure to smile and seem engaged. It occurred to her that if she wanted she could probably have this man in her bed before the night was over. She didn't want that, however. She was not in love with anyone, but she didn't _want_ to pick a husband.

Eleanor excused herself, pleading fatigue, though she was not at all tired, only weary of the lights and heat and voices. So many cultured accents, so unlike the slang and swearing her ears were used to. Funny, she had thought the difference would be invigorating.

Saying goodnight to the Charles who was not actually her Charles, she made her way out of the dining hall, up the huge staircase which had probably taken a hundred trees and as many slaves to build, and back to her room. She removed her dress and went directly to bed, there to lie for the next notch of the candle or so, the port wine still buzzing in her ears.

* * *

The following evening she had just finished dressing for dinner when a knock at the door came. It was a house-servant, bearing a folded sealed scrap of parchment on an impeccably shiny copper plate.

"Who gave this to you?" Eleanor turned it over in her fingers as she questioned the boy, who replied that a dock hand had brought it up from the wharfs late that afternoon.

Absently she thanked the servant and sent him away, withdrawing into her room and sitting down at the elaborate desk. The seal itself was not identifiable, merely a blob of wax with no imprint. She broke it open and scanned the few lines, written in a narrow and surprisingly elegant script:

"You might have told me you were going to be in the city. Meet me at the third alehouse on Water St. by dusk. We have unfinished business to discuss. Ch. Vane."

The dull sense of surprise she felt was brief. Of course they had unfinished business—she owed him money. She'd known the _Ranger_ was sailing south as well, so perhaps it wasn't such a coincidence that they had both come to Port Royal at the same time; it was the preferred location for most pirate crews to spend any earnings. Or did his first sentence mean he had somehow found out while at sea? She didn't know. The paper was in front of her, but there was no guarantee it was actually from his hand; doubtless, papers enough had passed across her desk before that bore his writing, but she wasn't able to identify it with complete certainty.

Nightfall was not far off. She would have to make excuses to her hosts if she was going to go. Alternatively, she could stay where she was, and take the chance of him showing up at the front door of the governor's mansion demanding to be seen. It seemed something he would do. Possibly not even sober. Regardless of how he presented himself, if he _were_ to do so, nobody would be fooled into believing Charles Vane was anything other than the pirate captain of the _Ranger;_ someone with whom she could have no public, legitimate business dealings.

Simply rendered, attending the rendezvous was her only option.

She would not go unprepared, however. Collecting her small bag of coins, Eleanor slipped her dagger into her boot, reminding herself that now she knew how to handle one, she really needed to acquire a sword. She had not taken especial care with her toilette the previous night, but now she studied herself in the half-length mirror. Her dress was becoming; not the latest style, perhaps, as it had been shipped from England three years before—still, it flattered her. The bodice was snug, revealing a considerable amount of skin that didn't usually see sunlight, exposing her collar bones and shoulder blades. The skirt of the dress was a paler salmon color than the pink of the bodice, with cane panniers underneath, and the sleeves were three-quarter length and lined with bunches of lace.

At the last minute Eleanor added a wrap, for though it would not be cold, she wanted to be able to cover herself while in the streets rather than risk giving passersby the idea that she was anything other than a lady. Telling Mr. Scott to make her apologies to the hosts, and giving no other details of her plan other than that she had a brief meeting to attend, she was on her way.

It was a long walk down to the harbor, made longer because she had to stop occasionally and rely on her memory to make sure she was following the streets they had taken up in the carriage. Whenever groups of carousers approached, she had to slip discreetly into a side alley or into the shadow of a sign until they were gone. Every third building in Port Royal was an alehouse or tavern of some kind, it seemed, and so by the time she finally reached the arranged meeting spot, it was past dusk.

"Where the fuck is Scott?" Vane demanded, accosting her at once without any pleasantries. "I didn't tell you to come alone."

Eleanor gathered her wrap around her shoulders and stood tall. "You did not tell me not to. Furthermore, I came armed."

"With your _tongue,_ no doubt." He gestured to the doors.

She preceded him, conscious of his hand against her back. This particular alehouse was low-ceilinged, probably to accommodate the inn rooms above, but spacious, with table after table of patrons enjoying noisy song and libations. Eleanor blinked at the sheer size and raucousness of the place; Port Royal clearly had the population to support such establishments, but suddenly her own tavern seemed tiny and provincial by comparison. Drunken men behaved similarly everywhere, but there was an extra edge of danger and prurience here; there was more than one couple in the corners engaging in something that might or might not have been actual intercourse (two men, at that) and towards the back there was an impassioned swordfight going on. Eleanor's own rules for her tavern, not always followed, were that sexual commerce occurred upstairs in the brothel, while fights—and any subsequent murders—were to be taken outside. Clearly they did not have any such regulations in this particular drinking establishment.

She held her head aloft and chose a table close to the door, experience having taught her that one could better escape from such a position were some naval officers or any other type of trouble to come marching through.

Vane swung a leg over the bench across from her and put his elbows down on the table in front of them, gesturing for drink.

"Where are your bodyguards?" she said, with a touch of undisguised spitefulness. "Or the rest of the crew, for that matter?"

"Drinking elsewhere. This has nothing to do with them."

Their drinks arrived and she sniffed hers out of habit, though it seemed unfouled. He watched this with an amused eyebrow but did not comment.

Eleanor took a swallow of hers, then set it down and asked, "What are you doing in Port Royal?"

"We were a day north, chasing a prize that got away," he said, delivering the slightest of shrugs. "The men wanted a night or two in port to lift their spirits. I recognized your father's ship in the harbor. Thought I'd accomplish two things for the cost of one. And you?" He used the bottle to gesture at her, letting her know he expected an answer for the one given.

"Here on the governor's business," she said, "and my own."

"Which is?"

"None of yours."

He ran an idle hand along the back of his head, accepting that. His eyes drifted to her neck, and the tops of her breasts exposed by the square neckline; she had been trying to take the wrap off unobtrusively, as it was very hot, but that only seemed to draw more of his attention to the activity, so she whipped it free and placed it in her lap and stared at him challengingly.

"Pretty dress," he said. "Never seen you wearing anything like that before."

"And nor shall you again. There is no point to such frippery in my tavern or my offices."

"Ever mindful of your work."

"As are you," she retorted. "Why should I not be?"

"You are a _woman_. All appearances to the contrary sometimes—though not tonight, I have to admit—" He cut himself off as a couple of men passed their table on their way out, one giving Eleanor a long, bordering on lascivious, look of appraisal.

"Never mind," she said, stunned that Vane actually sat up straighter and looked for a moment as though he had the idea to follow them out.

"You like that he looked at you like that?"

"No, but it was harmless...only the men who act on such urges need to be held accountable." This statement was prompted more by general memories than particular ones, but she recalled suddenly how he had kissed her and she knew he thought she was referring to that too. Discomfited, she took another drink, and he leaned back and lit a cigar from the tabletop candle, the smoke curling around his head, isolating him from her. They were both quiet for a time.

She reached for the bag of coins she had tied at her waist, hidden in the folds of the skirt fabric. "Payment," she said. "We had an arrangement."

"I wasn't worried," he said, his eyes on hers.

"You say that," she said, placing the bag on the table near his hand, "but just the same, I wish you would count it, so there is no misunderstanding."

He sighed through his nose as if he found the requirement tiresome and extinguished the cigar on the table.

She steepled her fingers expectantly and waited while he shuffled through the coins. "Is the amount what I promised?" she prompted.

He palmed the handful almost irritably, staring at her with such sudden intensity that for an instant she was taken aback, and said, "Come upstairs with me."

The noise in the room hadn't diminished at all, but she was silent for a moment, trying to decide if he'd said that. But he _had_ said that.

"I can't," she said in a tight, tiny voice.

"Now? Or me?"

"Now. You! Both." Eleanor felt a flush building at her neck and rising to her cheekbones. She'd seen a tiger once, being unloaded by four men on the docks. Trapped in a too-small crate, it had been bedraggled and underfed but there was a look of proud hunger in its eyes that had nagged at her—she saw something similar in Vane's face right now that was reminding her of that moment. As if he wanted, but he would not beg.

She didn't know what to do.

Damn it, she should have brought Mr. Scott along—Vane would never have made such an invitation with him sitting at her side.

Then again, perhaps he still might have.

"I am not a whore," she said, plainly.

"I know that," he said, with gentle impatience. "If you were, I would have given you some of this money back and we'd be even."

Eleanor tried to think a couple of steps ahead. The conversation was making her feel as if she had suddenly been shifted off onto a side road where she had no idea what to expect from the journey or where the destination ultimately lay. Each second that passed where she didn't leap to her feet or throw her drink in his face or commit some hostile act of outraged refusal seemed disconcerting proof that his request was not offensive. It was, was it not? He had no right to proposition her? Was he serious, or just trying to catch her off guard?

Someone two tables down kicked the stool out from under his drinking companion. Eleanor inadvertently flinched as the man fell to the floor with a crash, then leaped up again, unharmed, bawling a torrent of abuse at his tablemates in some kind of patois.

Vane stood up, extracting a coin from the bag and leaving it on the table. He nodded towards the door, and she took up her wrap, distracted, and followed him out. It was a relief to breathe the outside air, acrid and marshy though it was blowing up from the harbor.

He reached for her and she let him take her hand; though far more familiar than the offer of an elbow, the warm pressure of his fingers wrapped around hers felt surprisingly good, comforting. And despite her confusion she was glad he wasn't abandoning her to make the walk back alone. They started up the cobblestone hill.

Lanterns blazed in nearly every street-side window, advertising drink or whores within; the more respectable businesses were black and closed up for the night. From second-story buildings there was laughter and the sounds of commerce, sexual and otherwise. Abruptly a window flew open and a serving-woman poured a pail of slops into the street right in front of them, causing Eleanor to stop in consternation and Vane to swear profoundly, not at all daunting the woman who gave them a partial-toothed smile as she hauled the window shut. Eleanor held her lace sleeve to her nose as they circled around the spill. She wasn't normally so sensitive, but her nerves were on edge at the moment.

Further up, she saw a beggar, one she'd noticed on the way down because he had been lingering in the door of one of the taverns and received a kick for accosting one of the more obviously prosperous patrons. The man was young—not far out of boyhood—dark-skinned, missing an arm, one tattered sleeve hanging loose. He met Eleanor's eye, registering that he had already seen her that evening, and as they drew nearer stepped forward into the street. "Mistress," he entreated, holding out his single hand.

"Give him something," Eleanor murmured.

"What?" Vane looked at her. He hadn't seen the fellow or was choosing not to. She squeezed his hand. "Please, Charles."

She couldn't think what possessed her to have used his Christian name in that moment, and from the sharp sideways glance he gave her, neither could he. Regardless, he followed her indication to the beggar, produced a coin and used his knuckles to flip it through the air in the other's direction. The beggar caught and palmed it swiftly. Vane glanced back at Eleanor with a look of are-you-satisfied-can-we-move-on, and she stared at him in mild incredulity. "You might have given it right into his hand," she hissed as they moved away, with the man's murmured gratitude echoing behind them.

"If he had to scrabble in the mud for it, he wouldn't have lasted long in any case," Vane said dismissively. "Small fortune besides."

"Which you did not have to work very hard to earn!"

"Hard enough," he said. "You're not the easiest student I've ever had. What did you call me that for?"

"It _is_ your name," she said, taking a slightly more diplomatic tone.

"The way you said it, then."

"How did I say it?"

"Fucked if I know." He was striding faster now and she was having a hard time keeping up with him, if only because the skirts of the dress were hampering her progress, the more so because she had to hold them up to avoid them being soiled by the filth in the street. "When are you leaving town?"

"I don't know for certain. When my business is concluded. You're going too fast." She tugged back on his hand.

Vane turned, with an impatiently sardonic expression. "It's getting late. Your hosts will be anxious if you don't return soon."

"That is my problem," she said, "not yours."

" _You_ are my problem."

"I am not!" Eleanor pulled her hand out of his grasp. "I refuse to be anyone's problem, least of all yours."

"This is how it's going to be with you and me," he said, and beyond the normal husk of his voice there was a lilting gentleness, a calm certainty, that staggered her. She felt immediately faint-hearted, unable to deny or accept that this was how it was going to be, only gnawed at by the instinct to run. Perhaps literally, if necessary.

But her feet would not move.

"I can't, I told you I can't," she said. "Why aren't you listening?"

"I am," he said. "I just don't believe I agree with you."

The governor's mansion was not far off now, its lights visible at the top of the hill. "Good night," she said, infusing every desperate measure of control she could into the two brief words, in supplication that he would know she needed to leave it here, leave him here.

He glanced up, marking the remainder of the distance, and nodded. But then he gestured for her to come to him, and Eleanor could not or did not want to refuse. She took a shuffling, irresolute step forward.

His hands circled her waist, drawing her close, but he waited, because her head was still lowered, her eyes firmly focused on his shoulder. She raised her head a little, tentatively, her cheek brushing several days' worth of stubble along his jaw, questioning if he was still waiting for it to be her decision. His hands stayed at her waist, not roaming, she was glad of that because she might have pulled away if he had suddenly turned amorous.

Eleanor tipped her mouth up to his, her lips closed, giving him the most puritanical of soft kisses. He made a sound in his throat that seemed to ask for more, but she considered it more than sufficient expression of her current state of mind (or perhaps heart) and dropped her head again in reticent denial.

For a moment they stood in silent awareness of each other, of the night around them, then a gust of wind sent a sign creaking on its chains overhead and the instant was disturbed. He picked up her hand again, ran his thumb across her knuckles.

"You're needed back in Nassau," he reminded her. "Don't stay here long."

With that he was gone, a shadow vanishing into the other shadows of the street. The breeze was picking up, scattering debris across the ground. Eleanor saw the shape of a woman outlined beyond a ratty curtain, extinguishing a candle light in the window of an upper storey building and plunging it into darkness. Though the night remained warm, she felt a chill on her shoulders and she wound the wrap around her neck and hurried the rest of the way up the hill to the safety of her host's home.


	8. Chapter 8

In her remaining days in Jamaica, Eleanor handled her father's business affairs without difficulty, but found herself distracted and with no enthusiasm to spare on potential husband hunting. Her hosts could not be faulted; the improbable number of suitable young men to whom she was introduced at each tea, luncheon, dinner and every other manner of social engagement meant it was entirely possible (even likely) that her father had dropped a word in their ears prior to her arrival.

She could not help thinking of the _Ranger_ and Vane's offer. Of his certainty that they were going to be something to each other—a certainty she could scarcely align with her own hopes and plans for her future, to say nothing of her father's. Ultimately, Richard Guthrie was right; as a young, unmarried woman, however skilled she had become at managing his affairs for him, Eleanor was not her own agent and could not set the course of her own life. This knowledge might have infuriated her younger self but now she viewed it with practical detachment, as a fact that had to be dealt with.

But there was no immediate need to see or deal with anything relating to Charles Vane in the approaching future. Eventually they would encounter each other again in Nassau, yet he might behave completely indifferently to her by then; pirates were not known for being trustworthy in matters of the heart. And if by their next meeting he had not forgotten their latest interactions, she would, at least, have had the time to determine how to respond to any further propositions.

* * *

"He's gone soft."

"What? I have not—"

"Not you, fool." Anne smacked him across the back of the head in a gesture that, with less force behind it, might have been mistaken for affection. She was sitting half-naked in his lap, her hands on him possessive and expectant. In bed, (as in life, arguably) she was a selfish and unpredictable lover, demanding relations out of Jack at the oddest times and with the least warning. He still managed to satisfy her, or so it seemed, even if occasionally it was more duty than pleasure for him.

Now was one of those times; they were in Port Royal, and all he had wanted to do was bury his face in a bottle of rum cheaper than could be had on New Providence, yet she had dragged him into their inn room early, putting a halt on his libationary indulgences.

"Who, then," he said, trying to concentrate.

"The captain. Over the Guthrie wench."

"You think so?" Jack frowned into her face, distracted.

"Yeah."

"Well, such things do happen, perhaps they'll fuck and be done with it—" Anne's hand turned a touch too rough, and he exhaled with discomfiture. "More gently, my love..."

"She's no whore, aye? A real lady, that one." Anne's voice was thick with sarcasm beyond its natural husk and Jack wondered if she'd somehow run afoul of Eleanor, or if it were just her natural disdain for people in general that prompted such an observation. "And it's gonna be trouble."

"It hasn't happened yet, though, has it, so no point worrying until it does," he said, optimistically, flipping her over underneath him on the musty bed. She reached up for him, her fingers disturbingly like claws as they dug into his shoulders and drew him down.

Later, once she'd had enough, she pushed him off like a piece of clothing she no longer wanted to wear. Rejected, he sagged back into the bolster, while she sat on the edge of the bed, only her long blouse on sitting halfway across her shoulder, exposing the narrow curve of one blade in her back. He wanted to touch her, to smooth the tangled red hair away from her face so he could see her expression, but she would pull away, or slap his hand away if he did. No sentiment in her, no pity either. He laid his arm out on the bed towards her, palm up, the closest he could get to calling her back into the crook of his shoulder to snuggle or drift off to sleep. He pulled a blanket across his thighs, knowing in a moment she would get up, pull on breeches, buckle her sword belt, crush her hat on her head and be on her way. Wherever she went. Downstairs to drink, perhaps, though if he accompanied her, she would be restless and slip away soon for a solitary walk, to pace the harbor docks like a sleepless cat all night. She would not share any of it with him. Did she share it with anyone else? He didn't think so. She had never learned to share.

"Anne," he said, knowing he was daft for saying it. "Come back to bed."

She spared him a grunt of dissent, still kinder than a flung boot in his face—that was answer from her too, as were curses and silences that lasted so long they might as well never speak again. "Not tired," she added (a veritable book's worth of expression, coming from her) and the last thing she said before getting fully dressed, as he'd known she would, and leaving the room.

He lay on the bed a while longer, listening to the sounds from next door before pulling a cushion over his head.

* * *

A driving night rain was falling over Nassau, collecting in the palm leaves, which occasionally blew sideways, spattering the face or person of anyone unlucky enough to be out in such unfavorable weather.

The tavern was quiet, populated only by a few local merchants huddled in their greatcoats, or others who had sought shelter from the storm and were now morosely nursing warmed drinks. Most of the pirate crews were out at sea, chasing potential prizes lurking along the trade routes. With so many ships away, it was not unusual for business to be slow.

A full month had passed since Eleanor's return from Port Royal, and she had not yet seen the _Ranger_ back in bay. She had lately overheard a patron relaying a rumor that it had been spotted plundering a shipwreck in the northern islands, though that information itself had been a week or more old. Vane and his men could be anywhere, and Eleanor had almost completely convinced herself that any concerns she had about their current whereabouts were of a practical rather than a personal nature.

Mr. Scott had gone home early with a fever, and most of Mr. Noonan's girls were upstairs already asleep, only a few below languidly attending the few men present. Eleanor was sitting by the bar counter, her hand curved around a drink of hot spiced cider, while the wind rattled the shutters outside. She was enjoying the warmth flowering in her stomach from the drink, and wondering if she also might be able to retire early tonight, when voices echoed outside.

Some of the girls looked up, over to Eleanor as if expecting her to know their provenance, since the local crews were usually in well before dark. Eleanor slid off her seat as the doors swung open. Jack Rackham gave her a saucy salute and sent up a call for food and drinks. A serving girl hurried to comply, chivvying some of her dozing workmates to assist, while men—all dripping from the storm—swaggered into the tavern on Jack's heels.

Eleanor came out from behind the counter, forcing herself to focus in that moment on Jack's tired but pleased face and not on anyone else who might be coming into the building. "They were saying you found a wreck up north?"

"Spanish," he said, intoning the word in such a way, almost a leer, as to make the prospect sound delightful. He swung onto a stool in front of the bar and stripped off his soaked overcoat.

She uncorked a bottle and poured a standard measure. "Cheers to that."

He waggled his fingers at her before he took the drink, raising it high. "We'll have good business for you tomorrow."

Eleanor raised her own mug and sipped, raising an approving eyebrow. "Good business tonight," she remarked, looking around at the quantity of men, and sending a frown at one of the girls who had just come down the staircase looking obviously half-asleep. She would have to go in to the kitchen and make sure the cooks were still on the premises, as this lot was going to want their dinner.

"Anne's not here?" she asked, after a moment.

"They're on their way," Jack answered, just as Anne and Vane both came in, banging the front doors open again and letting in a view of the sleeting rain behind them. Anne sauntered to her favorite dark corner, one nobody ever tried to occupy when she was in the room. Vane looked tired, Eleanor noticed, feeling an odd pang.

She delivered her veteran taverns-mistress smile, readying the bottle as he drew up beside his quartermaster. "Drink, Captain?"

He put his elbows on the counter and leaned in, giving her a brief look and a quick nod. Jack, watching them both, was pretending not to, a fact that did not escape Eleanor's attention either, so she served the alcohol with a flourish and pushed it between Vane's open hands. "Enjoy, gentlemen," she said, adding a note of irony to the appellation. "I will check that the kitchen is warming up your dinner." She swept out from behind the bar, congratulating herself on having successfully handled his unexpected arrival.

Eleanor made her rounds in the tavern, ensuring that everything was in order before coming back to the bar to observe the captain and his quartermaster. It was amusing to note the way spirits affected them; the gregarious Rackham's tongue was loosened, and Vane's natural taciturnity heightened, to the degree that it was nearly comical. Jack was boisterous, physical, managing to sprawl his tall body and lanky limbs over multiple areas at once, creating a palpable, amiable presence. Vane sat with compact precision, his few and contained movements reflecting an air of impervious self-control despite the quantity of alcohol he was putting back.

Eleanor wiped out mugs at the bar, half-listening to one of Jack's anecdotes, her eyes on the captain who, despite his impassive demeanor, seemed bone-weary. There were new lines in his already-sharply delineated features and his eyes looked like they hadn't seen any kind of sleep in a night or more. She had a sudden, ridiculous desire to stand behind him and rub his shoulders, to work some softness into his body by force, if that was the only way. Instead she rubbed the mug harder, restoring its battered tin to a shine.

Jack came to the punchline of whatever story he was relaying and everyone in the vicinity bellowed their approval, even the whores laughing dutifully. Eleanor swallowed a yawn. She was tired herself, or perhaps that was only the cider working its effect. But there would be no early bed tonight, when the crew would doubtless be here till the first or second notch of the morning candle. Summoning long-ago developed discipline, Eleanor moved to collect and wipe clean more mugs.

Much later—when the candles were pooled in lakes of wax, and most if not all of the patrons had returned to the beach or gone upstairs in search of rest or other recreation—Eleanor made her final sweep, collecting unfinished rum from the containers still standing. The air was hot and oppressively smoky, as always at the end of a long night, and she coughed a little as she made her way back to the counter, checking once again to make sure all the customers were gone.

They weren't. Rackham and Vane were still at the bar.

"He's asleep," Jack told her, with only the slightest slur, a familiar arm around the fallen shoulders of his captain. "I could, perhaps, drag him out of here for you."

"You would likely both drown in the mud," Eleanor said. "For me to find by the steps when I opened the doors in the morning."

"Also a possibility," he concurred. "Come, Captain, wake up. We are keeping the lady from her bed, a place that, given the lateness of the hour, she must very much want to be."

Vane's head was resting against one forearm, the other covering his face. Jack gave Eleanor a reassuring smile and pounded the other man between the shoulder blades, earning no more than a growl of dissent for his troubles.

"Leave him," Eleanor said, tucking her last bottle of rum behind the counter and locking it with one of the keys at her waist.

Jack looked askance, slightly cross-eyed. "Are you sure—?"

"I'd count it a triumph if you were able to get _yourself_ home, Mr. Rackham, much less the captain. Please go ahead. I will deal with him."

"If you insist." He made a show of walking to the door in as straight a line as possible, falling over only one bench along the way before leaping back up and brushing himself off.

Eleanor sighed, looking around the otherwise deserted drinkery. "So," she said, putting a hand on Vane's arm. "You did not have much to say tonight."

He didn't move. Eleanor leaned over him, put her lips next to his ear and whispered, "Come upstairs."

He cracked open an eye and looked at her tiredly, drunkenly.

"To sleep," she clarified, with firm weariness.

He slid off his seat, acquiescent, while she took his hand and led him through the gathering darkness and smoky air towards the staircase; though it took what seemed a long time to get to the top, they finally arrived at her door. She unlocked it, recalling the time he'd brought her up, but now their states were reversed.

While her hands were busy with the key, he leaned against the doorframe and started to slide down, but she grabbed his hand in time and pulled him after her into the room.

The fireplace still held coals, providing just enough light so that she could bring him straight to the bed without either of them tripping on anything.

He sank down, mumbling something inaudible.

"What?" She bent to take off his boots, not wanting them on her coverlet.

"Have something for you. On the ship."

"Of course. But not right now." She reached for his belts, rather tentatively, wanting to unbuckle the one that held the swords. He remained still until she placed her hands on his parted knees to push herself up, and then grabbed her (perhaps predictably) and pulled her down on him. Eleanor didn't bother to struggle, resigning herself to having been captured. His breathing was quiet and even, the rise and fall of his chest slight. And she was similarly fatigued; her ears still rang with the noise of downstairs, her head ached with the smoke. Eleanor closed her eyes, told herself she would get up in a moment, when he fell completely asleep—that she would lock him in her chamber for the night and find an empty room for herself.

But the rhythmic echo of the rain on the roof above them was soporific, and one moment turned into another, and he was sleeping, and then she was, too.

The rain stopped by morning, but there was no sun, only grey light filtering through the shutters. When Eleanor became aware of this, she became aware of a number of things all at once. She was curled up against Charles Vane's bare chest (though, feeling about rather blindly, she determined her own body was still fully clothed; there was that to be thankful for). His hand was on her backside. She carefully shifted it to her hip, which seemed like a good compromise for the time being. And then she lay there and tried to think what to do next.

He was not yet awake, but when he was, they were going to have to talk, and she couldn't guess how the conversation would go. Or if he would simply accept that the fact they had spent the night in each other's arms did not mean anything beyond her early-morning decision that they had both needed to sleep.

Her fingers became aware of the tattoo on his chest and she traced it absently for the second time, round in a circle, once, twice, three times—He started into wakefulness and his hand closed over hers, moving it away.

"Can I not touch you?" she murmured, her mouth near the warm skin of his collarbone.

"Not there." So low it was almost a whisper.

She tilted her head to see his face, but he seemed not to want to look at her, and put his hand at the back of her head, gently pushing it down to his neck again. She smiled in mild curious concern for the defenses he had up. He would not let her know his secrets. That was all right, she had secrets too, things she might not tell anyone either.

She brought her fingers up once more to play with the corded leather necklaces lying in the hollow of his throat, feeling the beat of his blood, and edged her head back to gaze at him again. His blue eyes were distant, looking beyond her, but the lines around them seemed less pronounced this morning.

"You drank too much last night," she chided impulsively.

It was rewarding to see his mouth crease in the manner of a child's with a taste of sugarcane. "Must have. I don't remember getting up here."

"You came," she said, "like a dog on a leash."

He was still, and she thought he had taken offense, but after another moment he rolled on top of her and kissed her cheek with an almost lazy affection, moving along towards her ear. She felt a tremor catch hold of her, and for a second, mild panic followed. He would continue, if allowed—possibly even if forbidden, and that was so irrevocable.

Being Max's lover had always felt like a game; not that Eleanor hadn't taken it seriously, not that it hadn't meant something, but being with Vane seemed as though it would be something quite different. She stopped his hand at her breast.

He looked down at her, searchingly. Then he said, in a purposeful echo of his words before, he said, "Now...or me?"

She caught her lip between her bottom teeth. She wanted to be a coward and delay this question once again, but she could plainly read on his face he wouldn't be put off a second time.

"Now," she admitted. There. It was said. A reprieve would be granted, unless he did not care whether or not she liked the timing.

He leaned on an elbow over her a moment longer. Then he exhaled and dropped on his back at her side. She sat up, slowly, running fingers through her tangled hair in awkward wordlessness, letting it fall to hide her face.

 _This is how it's going to be with you and me_.

She remembered he'd said that, too. It seemed as if it was true. She would probably still end up denying it to others, but perhaps she should stop denying it to herself first.

Yet she loathed the ambiguity of this place they were in.

He reached for her hand, running his thumb along the work-hardened ridges of her palm, as if a deliberate reminder to come back out of her thoughts, to not think so far ahead.

"We should get up," she said. She hadn't meant to say _we_ —it was too intimate. She tried to reverse the statement. "I need to go downstairs. You can stay, if you want." Uncertainly, she fastened the top button on her blouse and straightened it on her shoulders.

"I've slept enough," he said. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, looking around for his discarded shirt which he found and pulled over his head. He fastened his sword belt while she, at her mirror, tamed her hair back into submission.

They went out and downstairs. Mr. Scott was still nowhere to be seen, for which mercy Eleanor was thankful. There was only a kitchen maid or two in view (who might gossip, but given their food and drink and sufficient pay, most had little interest in the affairs of their superiors).

Eleanor found some fruit, her usual breakfast; but when she offered some to Vane his nostrils flared in aversion and he said he would rather go hungry for a week than eat a fucking mango, which she thought rather an extreme viewpoint until she recalled he had had a similar reaction before. She accepted it as one of his inexplicable quirks which might or might not be properly explained sometime, and brought him meat left over from last night and a heel of bread from yesterday's baking. They ate together in quiet equanimity.

He stood up, and she gathered their plates, torn between distant amusement at the domesticity of it all and a restiveness for their undefinability.

"Coming with me?" he said, without looking at her, capturing the last crust of bread with the tip of his dagger.

"Where are you going?"

"The _Ranger._ Not you," he specified, "not aboard. But you can come out in the boat with me."

She stiffened, wanting to say that he didn't need to grant her any favors, that she would damn well stay here in the tavern. Yet the idea of fresh air and a bit of diversion, no matter how mild, appealed. She swallowed pride and agreed.

Outdoors was misty and humid. Birds shrilled overhead in search of edible debris turned up by the storm; the air was pungent with brine. Sodden ground sucked at Eleanor's boots as she walked behind Vane down to the beach, gazing up at the sky still scarred with clouds. There was little human activity on the sand or wharfs, beyond a few local fishermen in their boats or squatted by the water. Eleanor wondered why the crew wasn't yet busy unloading the ship, and her expression must have revealed it as she looked around, because Vane glanced at her and said, "I gave them the morning. They don't work till midday."

"They will need at least that much time to rest," Eleanor said, "especially Jack—he had more to drink than any of you."

"Anne's responsible for that."

"Does he ever talk about her?" she said curiously, following him down the stretch of dock to where the dinghy was moored.

"To me? He's my quartermaster." He vaulted into the boat, turning and giving her a hand that more reflected a practical assessment of her skirts than any gentlemanly notions.

"But surely he is also your friend." She climbed in.

He settled himself on the seat and picked up the oars, sparing her a dismissive glance. "I don't have friends. Any one of them would turn on me if there was profit in it. Jack would too. You know that."

"I suspect it," she said, putting her hand on the nearest gunwale for support as he sent the craft surging ahead through the translucent water. "I am not sure I _know_ it."

"No sense getting involved," he said. "I'm their captain, no more, and not even that, if they don't want."

 _And what are you to me?_ she thought, but did not say.

He rowed them the rest of the way to the ship, slicing through the clearing mist with steady, practiced application of the oars. The gulls were following them in hopes of food, swooping down into the water now and again with stretched wings the color of the sky. Vane brought the boat alongside the looming _Ranger_. He tied up the boat at the end of the rope ladder, which he then ascended as easily as another might a staircase, vaulting over the gunwales and disappearing.

Alone in the dinghy, Eleanor listened to the sounds of the ship and imagined what he had gone aboard to fetch for her. A gruesome trophy, perhaps? Something embarrassing? A smuggled bottle of some Spanish intoxicant or other? Truthfully she had no idea what to expect, and that made her shift back and forth, nervous, on the swaying seat of the boat.

Vane returned promptly, half-dropping down the ladder, one-handed. She winced a little when he landed in the boat, though its broad base remained steady enough, sending wavelets against the side of the ship.

She gazed at him expectantly.

"You want it now?" he said, pausing in the act of reaching for the oars.

"You _have_ it now?"

He tapped a small canvas bag slung over his shoulder. His expression was undecipherable, and she did not think he had the light-heartedness of character requisite for teasing.

She nodded, innate curiosity having been wakened.

He leaned forward and shrugged the bag down the length of his arm, not stopping the progress of the oars.

She hesitated another moment.

"Go on, then," he said, mildly impatient.

Eleanor wrinkled up her face with suspicious anticipation at the idea of putting her own hand in the bag to find out. "First promise it is nothing foul."

"Mistrustful wench, aren't you?"

After another moment she eased the satchel off his arm and felt around in inside. Her fingers touched small hard metal. Withdrawing the object, she could see that it was a circular pendant of hammered Spanish gold on a long chain. She held it up, looking at the delicate handiwork.

He didn't stop rowing, but she could feel his eyes on her. Eleanor did not quite know what to say, but something was necessary.

"Foul?" he prompted.

"It is beautiful," she said, with some diffidence.

He gave a noncommittal grunt as if vindicated by the admission. She knew color was building in her face. It felt more awkward now, on the return journey to sit and have nothing to do. Eleanor wrapped her fingers around the necklace, feeling it warm to her palm.

Back at the wharf they docked the boat and disembarked. No more words were exchanged, and Eleanor hesitated, uncertain how to conclude their interaction, though it was clear he was planning on rounding up the rest of the sleeping crew and getting to work unloading the bulk of the plundered Spanish cargo. At last she said, "Will we see you at the tavern tonight?" and he gave her the slightest head inclination before starting up the beach.

Eleanor returned to her offices. Mr. Scott was back at work and she relayed to him the news that the storehouses were going to see new stock over the next few days. They discussed the various logistics involved, then spent some time looking over the books. At the conclusion of the meeting, Eleanor realized she'd been holding the necklace in her hand. She went upstairs to put it away, placing it carefully on a shelf in one of the smaller interior compartments of her armoire. She stood in contemplation for a while before locking its door and leaving the room.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Smut is upcoming. Consider yourself warned._

* * *

Some of the _Ranger_ 's crew returned to the tavern the evening of the first day of the ship's unloading, but it was not until the second night that Eleanor, making her rounds, came upon Vane and Rackham busy with cards at one of the back tables. Both men played with purposeful seriousness, making it appear less a game than yet another aspect of the day's work. Eleanor sat down for a moment, watching their progress. She had seen any number of gambling variations occur amongst the pirate crews, to the point it could be impossible to determine which one was taking place if you were not watching for a long time; the game they were currently involved in seemed to be either one-and-thirty or bone-ace.

"Lovely necklace, Mistress Guthrie," Jack remarked, winking at Eleanor over his splayed hand of stained cards.

"Thank you," she said casually, refusing to be teased, since he obviously knew its provenance. When she had put on the Spanish medallion earlier that day, she'd fastened an extra button on her blouse so that it was not quite so obviously visible in the shadow of her cleavage, but the pendant had slid sideways.

Vane, expressionless, sifted through his cards and used his first two fingers to flip one down on the table.

"Shall I deal you in?" Jack invited Eleanor. "You'd be able to help keep the captain from taking all of my coin, I'd wager."

"That is a bet you would lose," Eleanor said. "I'm afraid I have no gift for cardplaying. Or, if it is a cultivated skill, then I have not had the practice. Either way, gambling holds no particular attraction for me." This was not precisely true, and when both men looked at her—Rackham with unhidden skepticism—she amended, "Unless I can be very sure of a win."

"But certainty affords no amusement." Deftly, Jack dealt a few more cards. Eleanor thought of Anne (who was absent), and how such a philosophy went a long way towards explaining why he was involved with her, though it would be tactless to say so. Diplomatically, she refilled each of their drinks and commented on the amount of work that had been accomplished that day. Rackham estimated they would need two or three more days to empty the _Ranger_ completely of its newly acquired goods. They conversed amiably for a little longer before Eleanor moved on to deal with other patrons, conscious that she should be aware of how much attention she was perceived to be giving to one or both of the men.

Later, when the night had drawn on—the girls were taking patrons upstairs and those who had come for dinner were trickling out the doors— Eleanor stepped outside for a moment of fresh air, having recognized the tension developing at the base of her skull was threatening to turn into a headache if she did not clear her lungs.

Vane was there, outlined by smoke swirling upwards, one foot up on the low rail as he waited for her. Had he noticed she usually went out at this time? Holding the homemade cigar stub between thumb and forefinger, he glanced over at her, but did not speak. She approached, in a round-about way. There were still men passing through the doors, arms round the shoulders of their more inebriated comrades, their tones and laughter and foul language echoing in the background.

Eleanor and Vane stood for a while, she behind him in the shadows, until eventually it grew quiet. He turned then, with purposeful intent, leaning back against the rail and putting his hands out to grip it, the sinewy muscle of his forearms visible in the moonlight. He gestured at her neck and she, glancing down, realized the necklace had disappeared again. Without intentionally being provocative, she unfastened the top button so the adornment was revealed.

"Suits you," he said. "Rich."

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He pushed away from the rail and took a few steps into the shadows to stand right in front of her. "Rescued a bottle of Spanish brandy—better than any of your father's stock," he said. "Come to my tent later if you want to try it."

Eleanor glanced around, wary of being observed, but he'd spoken low and she could see no one.

"I believe," she said, by way of re-establishing the upper hand, "such an item should have been accounted with the rest of the goods today or yesterday."

"Captain's right," he said, reaching out, brushing the skin where the necklace lay, just between her breasts, with his knuckles.

"Very well." Eleanor was uncertain whether she was agreeing to his commandeering the brandy or their drinking of it, but she tilted her chin anyway. "Go on, then."

He might not care to be summarily sent away, but she did not like to have him making all the decisions unilaterally, either. Vane accepted the dismissal with no apparent umbrage, however, and went down the steps, striding into the street without a backward glance. She was growing used to that.

Upstairs, she took her time about sponging off the day's sweat and changing into new clothes: a fresh skirt and a burgundy jacket that fitted snugly to her skin and that, worn without an underblouse, showed off the necklace properly. Eleanor made faces in her mirror, having decided as she passed by it that she looked nervous although, she told herself firmly, that was silly. She had only agreed to have a drink just down the beach. Probably she would be back in her own bed before the first hour of the morning, the current hour not even being very late.

Night wind stirred her hair outside as she hurried to the rendezvous, the brief trip made easier by the moonlight overhead glinting off the bay water. In the opposite direction there was a raucous drinking and singing session around a sizeable bonfire. It seemed to be well-attended, as many of the other tents were dark and quiet. She stopped in front of Vane's and hesitated just a moment but her fear of being seen propelled her in rather quickly.

Candles lit the interior, sending flickering shapes across the faded fabric walls. A crate sat in the center of the space with a rug crookedly thrown across it to create a makeshift table. Eleanor was unable to resist bending down to straighten it. Vane threw her a glance over his shoulder from where he was rummaging through a pile of cushions, then unceremoniously tossed her one, bringing one for himself and placing it on one side of the crate. He peeled burlap away from the bottle of brandy and set it down, then sank comfortably into crossed legs on his cushion, gesturing at her to do the same.

Eleanor knelt, folding her skirt and tucking her own legs to the side. She cast about for something to say about the milieu, but didn't want to seem mocking or derisive. It _was_ rather a primitive set-up, to be sure, but considering his sex and profession, certainly adequate for a drink or two, and she was no princess, was she? Despite what some might say.

Vane twisted out the glass stopper and she thought he would drink first, but he only held the bottle to his nose for a moment before extending it to her. Eleanor sipped, savoring the bright warm flavor. "It's very nice," she murmured, passing it back to him.

He took a considerably larger draught before setting it back on the table. "Nice," he repeated, with good-spirited scorn. "I wager it's older than you are."

"And much less likely to give you a headache," she said, surprising herself with her ability to self-tease.

He also looked mildly taken aback for a moment. "That as well."

"Back in Port Royal," Eleanor said, realizing that as fast as she had gotten the conversation off to a light start she might be turning it dangerous again, "you said that I was your problem."

He helped himself to more brandy and pushed it in her direction. "I did," he said. "You are."

Eleanor took a breath, decided that the alcohol was going to be helpful and imitated his lengthy draught. It caught in her throat and she had to put the bottle down more quickly than planned so as not to choke.

He stared at her. "Wasting my hard-won spirits, are you?"

"My apologies," she said, licking the spilt brandy off her lips. "I imagine—"

His face turned tiger-reminiscent, watchful, predatory. For an instant she though something was behind her; a beach snake, a scorpion, perhaps, and she almost turned, but then he moved and the crate was no longer a barrier between them, he was right there. Almost on top of her, kneeling, and his mouth met hers, tasting, demanding. One hand came up behind her neck. Eleanor gave in, there was nothing else to do; his mouth parted hers with possessive insistence, and she could taste the warm tingling of the brandy on his lips as well as her own. For a few infinite mad moments they were completely absorbed with the kiss, with each other. She pulled away for an instant, her heart thudding at the unexpectedness. His breathing was harsh. She put her hands on his chest, more to steady herself than anything, but he leaned in again to claim her mouth again. Eleanor's head spun, not only due to the drink.

Vane took her hand, pulling her over to the bed on the floor. She followed, not unwilling, but needing to slow it all down a notch. Did he forget she had not done this, not been this way with a man? This had not been a part of her plan for tonight, had it? Thoughts crowded in her head. Propped on her elbows, she grabbed his hand now, thwarting him, threading her fingers in his and moving his arm away from her body in a gently instructive fashion. He could have forced her down anyway but he paused, dropped to one elbow, bent his head to hers for more relaxed, exploratory kisses. When they stopped again to breathe, she was entranced by the look in his eyes, so voracious and focused, as if he found everything about her compelling.

He sat up then and tugged his shirt over his head. She put her hands out, running them over the smooth hard skin, feeling the lines of his stomach muscles. He let her touch him for a few minutes before he threw back his head and let out a quiet groan. She moved her hands to her own chest and began to unbutton her jacket, revealing her bare flesh. He pushed it the rest of the way off her shoulders and kissed her collarbone, the stubble of his face scratchy, then lower; his mouth found the necklace and her breast underneath it. Eleanor arched, feeling an immediate pleasant but overwhelming ache in her stomach. She felt too vulnerable with her upper body exposed, and pulled him back up so his chest could cover hers like a shield. He was untying something at his waist while he kissed her again and Eleanor knew they were going to do this, all of it, here and tonight, almost at this very moment. She closed her eyes temporarily, giving in to the feeling of desire that was obliterating secondary concerns about tomorrow, and the day after. No, there was only now, and the look in his eyes, and the grasping need in her center that was demanding some kind of fulfillment.

His clothing divested, he reached for her, sliding hands up her legs under her skirt, pushing it out of the way. Holding himself above her with one arm, he covered her mouth with his, gently, and she felt his other hand between her legs for a moment, guiding himself in. She gasped against his mouth, jolted by the hard thrust, but he murmured a quick sound of reassurance and brought his hand up to cup her cheek in an uncharacteristically tender manner, and her body accommodated the length of him deeper inside. He moved his lips along her cheek, up to her ear and neck as he moved between her thighs, his hip thrusts slow at first and then increasing in intensity. She had heard the sounds of lovemaking often enough to know when he was about to come to his end, but she wasn't sure what to expect for herself, and when he groaned her name and climaxed inside her, she knew that there was more, though for now she felt only a sense of sweet inexplicable satisfaction that the initial encounter was over and he was, for this moment, rendered helpless on top of her. She flexed her thighs and inner muscles simultaneously, feeling him shudder, and dug her fingers into his shoulders, then kissed the side of his neck. It turned into a bite, she couldn't have said why, and he gave a surprised squirm. She wanted to hurt him almost, contradictorily, although he had not hurt her.

Eventually he turned his head, scanning her face in the shadows of the sputtering candlelight.

Eleanor swallowed, experimentally. Her throat was dry. He was crushingly heavy. She brought her knee up in silent protest, and he moved at once, shifting out of her, to her side, propping himself on one elbow and still trying to determine her mood from her expression.

She pushed down her skirt, feeling a shiver run over her body with the lack of his warmth, and brought her forearms up across her chest. She gazed up at the tent roof with determination.

He sat up and reached around for a blanket which he pulled over her crossed arms, then gently untangled them underneath it. Eleanor lay quiescent, feeling his hand pausing on her stomach. Perhaps he thought it odd that she was lying there in silence, but it was not particularly out of dissatisfaction; she merely felt a strong sense of needing to be only herself for a time, to be wholly separate after that conjoining of bodies.

She wondered if she should not put her jacket back on and make her way back up to the tavern.

She sat up and reached around for the clothing, holding the blanket to her chest. She pulled it on quickly and started fastening it up.

"Come here if you're cold," he said, a question in his voice.

She shook her head. "I should go back."

"Eleanor. Fucking hell."

"I really—"

"Did I hurt you?"

"No." She looked back at him then, even managed a smile. "No."

"Then stay here." He held out an arm, patted the space beside him.

She relented, moving to lie down, though she put her back to him, that seemed a solid compromise with being present and yet maintaining the need for autonomy.

He put an arm over her, pulling her against his chest. It felt good. Warm. Protected. She closed her eyes, surprised by tiredness. The day had been a busy one. And tomorrow, as always, was going to present its own challenges.

"Captain—"

Disoriented, unsure what hour of the night or morning it was, Eleanor came sleepily into awareness at the sound of Jack Rackham's voice.

"Oh, shit." He was standing at the entrance to the tent, looking down at both of them.

"What is it," Vane said in his low rasp, apparently unperturbed by the quartermaster's appearance.

"I, ah, Mistress Guthrie, beg pardon. Captain, I could use your assistance defusing an imminent situation down the beach."

Vane moved with quiet effortlessness, dislodging his arm from under Eleanor's neck and grabbing trousers and swordbelt. "Pistol under the pillow," he told her. "Use it, if anyone not me tries to come in."

"Or me," Jack appended, sounding vaguely aggrieved.

Eleanor shifted upright, glad at least that she was properly clothed, though Jack was keeping his gaze respectfully averted anyway as he waited for his captain, who was standing now.

Not knowing the time was bothersome, and her mouth was parched. Once the two men had gone, she felt around for the brandy bottle; it was better than nothing to moisten her lips. She did not think she could go back to sleep until Vane returned, even if that might not be for some time. Sneaking out and back to her own bed didn't seem a viable option now, either.

She remained sitting, and brought the blanket up around herself, feeling under the pillow for the promised weapon—had she been sleeping on that the entire time unaware?—and its familiar bulk was comforting, now that she was acquainted with its usage.

She heard at least one pistol shot from down the beach and considerable uproarious disruption which could have been either good humor or animosity; it was impossible to tell. Though, after that, she didn't think she'd be sleeping, Eleanor did drop off again by the time Vane came back, only to jolt into alertness and whip the pistol she'd been clutching out from its hiding place when he stepped back in the tent.

"I said anyone not me," he reminded, coming over and removing the weapon from her grasp before easing back down on the bed.

"I didn't shoot. What happened?"

"Nothing you need be concerned about." He kicked off his boots again and stretched out.

She did not appreciate the dismissiveness of that. "I like to think," she said, trying not to sound too acrimonious, "that anything which happens on this island concerns me."

"You wouldn't be Richard Guthrie's daughter if you didn't."

He put a hand on her back but she stiffened involuntarily. "I only wish to know if there is trouble afoot."

"The men sometimes want my opinion," he said lazily, "and when they do, I give it to them, that is all. Come sleep, it's not morning yet."

She settled down beside him again, not entirely mollified.

When morning did come Eleanor woke to find Vane gone again. She gathered herself up and left as discreetly as possible; even though Jack already knew, advertising their previous night's congress to all and sundry was not an ideal way to begin the day. Once away from the tent she didn't worry so much about going noticed, as she was often seen on the beach anyway, and it was still early.

Back in the refuge of the tavern, she went to her own rooms to wash and change and prepare for the rest of the day. Later, she had Mr. Scott procure her a sword; a slim rapier that she could wear at her waist, to be discreetly tucked in the folds of her skirt when its presence did not need to be advertised. She made plans to take it out to practice with.


	10. Chapter 10

Over the following days the plundered contents of the Spanish ship were fully unloaded into the Guthrie storehouses, and the _Ranger_ was once again on its way out of port. Eleanor had known they were leaving, but when Vane made no effort to see or speak to her in the interim, she refused to seek him out; her pride was strong too. Probably his lack of contact meant nothing in particular as far as he was concerned, so she was determined it would not mean anything for her either.

There was always work to keep busy with, not only the broad scope of organizing the business but right down to helping out in the kitchen, and Eleanor, now as in the past, was prepared to do any of it. Far easier and more productive to roll up one's sleeves and immerse arms in a bucket of dishwater than to mope about aimlessly reflecting on the possibilities of a fragile social or sexual connection, and ultimately more profitable, too.

She kept a tight rein on her thoughts and emotions during the day, though at night, in the solitude of her bed, her mind returned to the physical interactions she'd shared with the captain, and the consequences of their most recent congress.

A fortnight passed. On one heat-soaked afternoon, Eleanor was busy overseeing a maid washing down the railing. Someone had vomited over the rail the night before, and the girl had previously made a less-than-thorough effort at cleaning it, but now, under Eleanor's critical eye, she obediently slopped the rag around the carved wood a second time, sending streams of the acrid lye soap mixture spilling down the steps.

Anne Bonny sidled up the staircase, hat uncharacteristically in hand. She lifted a boot away from the dirty liquid, drawing up her lip in a vulpine manner.

Eleanor ignored her presence for a few moments. She hadn't forgotten seeing her face in the shadows the night that Vane had accosted her in the alley. Of course the _Ranger'_ s first mate had only been doing as she had been instructed, but it still rankled, particularly since Anne had never sought tacit forgiveness for her part in the interaction, not even a facial expression along the lines of _I'm-sorry-I-was-only-following-orders_ the next time they'd encountered one another.

"Mistress Bonny," Eleanor said now, coolly, when she was forced to acknowledge Anne's presence or else obviously give offence. "Can I help you with something?"

Anne's eyebrows indicated the the maidservant, whose slack features brightened upon seeing an opportunity to escape. Hastily the girl gave the surface a final slap with her rag and tossed it back into the bucket, then hauled herself down the stairs, thumping the wooden container with each step.

Anne waited until she was out of earshot. Eleanor picked up the keys at her belt, pretending to look for one in order to have something to do. At last she gazed down at Anne from her position at the top of the staircase.

"Captain requests your presence," Anne said, the words falling sarcastically off her tongue. But everything she said sounded sarcastic, so it was hard to be sure.

Eleanor did, selfishly, take a bit of satisfaction in the extent to which the hired sword clearly loathed having to deliver such messages. "Requests or demands?"

"Same innit it?" Anne could enunciate when she wanted, but when irritated, her husky tone slipped quickly into the pirate argot. She swept a hand along her hairline, dark auburn with sweat.

Seeing the motion, Eleanor became conscious of the damp clinging to her own back, and the lingering smell of vomit mingled with lye sitting heavy in the air.

"Only if you are one of his crew," she answered.

Anne stared at her with scarcely disguised resentment. "He wants you to meet him at the bay you practiced at. This afternoon."

Eleanor deliberated for the space of a few heartbeats, putting the back of her hand to her nose. "You can tell him I will come, if I can find the time."

It was not entirely a prevarication; the stair cleaning had reminded her of the need to give a lecture to the kitchen girls on keeping up with their extra tasks, which she had been going to do had Anne not appeared just then. Though she could easily still deal with that first and then go.

When Anne didn't immediately move from the step, Eleanor tilted her head. "Was there anything else?"

"There's a good deal else," Anne said, "but that'll have to wait, won't it?"

With which equivocation she went back down the steps, holding her hand in the space above the railing, as though either measuring the distance, or proclaiming it too dirty to touch.

Eleanor released a sigh and waited until she was gone before heading down herself to the kitchen to deliver the intended talk.

After that, she dealt with several other less pressing errands. Vane had been gone for days. He couldn't expect her to leave everything and come the instant he beckoned, even if it was sweltering indoors, even if the walk alone in the open air would be welcome, even if she wanted to.

Even if she _had_ missed him.

Later, the weight of the sword at her side swinging against one hip, Eleanor set out for the beach. Their beach, as she thought of it now. The sun was relentless overhead, but she moved briskly through the grasses, shading her eyes when the light became too piercing. Sweat gathered at the back of her neck. Vane be damned, she was going to swim in the bay whether he was there or not.

She found the path that wound among scrubby trees borne down by capricious ocean winds, and followed it to the rise that overlooked the water, where she paused to catch her breath.

"You're late," he said.

She swung around.

He was sitting on a rock with his back against the lee side of one of the twisted trees.

"There were things keeping me," she said, purposely vague.

He stood, in his economical way of movement, and came over to her, reaching for the sword at her waist. "What's this?"

"A measure of defense."

"You came to practice?" he said with a tinge of amusement.

"Perhaps later," she said. "I wish to bathe first. You might join me in that. You reek of tar."

He accorded her this with an eyebrow. He slid his hand solidly around hers, pressing his fingers into her palm in the way that he did that always produced a momentary weightlessness in her stomach.

 _I missed you._ She cast her eyes sideways at him but couldn't say something so personal, so vulnerable. She'd sooner peel off her clothes under the open sky than expose that naked thought.

They walked down to the water. Eleanor sat down on a piece of driftwood and stripped away boots and stockings, luxuriating in the sensation of freed toes against the gritty sun-burning sand. She unbuckled her sword, placing it to the side, and he picked it up, examining the workmanship with a discriminating eye.

Eleanor couldn't endure the corset trapping her blouse to her skin any longer and began to unfasten it. She rather wanted to keep the skirt on so as not to be so obviously provocative but the thought of walking back to the tavern in a water-logged, ankle-length dress urged her to strip it off, too.

"Should be a bit heavier," he said, speaking critically to the sword. She loved, in that instant, that he was giving more attention to the weapon than to her bare legs.

Scrambling to her feet, she tossed, "Are you coming?" over her shoulder and ran, fleet-footed, into the waves.

He set aside the sword and paced like a wary cat at the edge of the water.

"I think it odd," she said, from the safety of the hip-deep waves, "that so many seafarers live their lives on the water and yet are so fearful of it."

Vane took off his boots and pulled his shirt over his head without speed, as if the prospect was indeed not pleasant, but he did wade in. Eleanor tipped her head back, feeling the waves work against the tension in her neck and shoulders. She saw him coming towards her and used her hand to send the ages-old message of playful invitation—a shower of water droplets—in his direction.

In return he merely looked at her, neither annoyed nor amused. To take part in such an activity would have required rather more of a carefree spirit than he had, but she knew that already.

"You have no sense of whimsy, sir," she said lightly.

"Whimsy," he repeated as if he didn't know what the word meant.

"I say you are no fun."

"Come here," he said. He was so accustomed to telling his crew what to do, she thought, that he did not even realize he was giving orders. Moreover, he didn't sound demanding; just as if he expected to be listened to.

She couldn't decide if that was endearing or terribly irritating. Possibly a little of both. But she stood up, anyway, and waded through the water.

His gaze took her in—soaked blouse, streaming hair and all. He put hands at her waist where the waves were lapping and pulled her against him and kissed her, slowly. It was a greeting, saying the words that neither of them had spoken. His sun-dark face was warm, his jaw stubbly. She put her arms around him in a moment of sudden feeble helplessness; not in body, which was strong as ever, but emotions. She wasn't supposed to want this so much. Nothing good could come of it; they had nothing in common except stubbornness, perhaps, and a mutual will to succeed. She looked up at him, trying to read in his eyes what she felt in her heart, but as usual seeing only calm intent.

He walked back out of the water, bringing her with him, and they went to sit where the grasses met the sand near a scrub of casuarina trees that yielded some shade. Eleanor retrieved her discarded clothing, because being nearly naked under cover of the rolling waves was different than sitting on the beach beside him in her limp shirt that outlined curve of breast and hip and was quite transparent. She put her skirt over her shoulders like a cloak and wrung wet hair away from the material—self-conscious because he was watching her, forearms on drawn-up knees, a strand of beach grass in his mouth as if it replaced a cigar.

They sat in silence for a few moments, and she watched the light wind disturbing the fuzz on the skin of her legs, drying the water droplets. He turned to her on one elbow. She carefully plucked the reed from his lips—it was knife-edge sharp—and, lying on her side, reached up for a kiss. He obliged. His warm hand found her hip, covered by damp fabric. He pulled it up to her waist, ignoring her murmured squeak of argument, though they were so low in the long grass that it was unlikely anyone above would be able to see, and twisted around to kiss her there, on her hip, on her stomach. Eleanor squirmed in mingled disquiet and enjoyment as he went lower. She tangled her fingers in his hair, urging him back up to her mouth. They kissed as the grasses brushed and danced around their bodies, creating a cocoon of susurrating seclusion, body heat warming the wet remnants of clothing still between them.

Congress was slower and lengthier this time, conducted with less urgency and more exploration, and Eleanor came to a convulsive fulfillment that might have embarrassed her had she not been in so much need of release. She trembled afterwards to the extent that he must have thought she was about to catch the ague, for he wrapped his arms around her and held her against his chest so closely she could feel her ribs contracting. But it was good, it was more than good; every muscle in her body felt extenuated, flooded with bliss. She wriggled, and he loosened his hold on her. His hand began to trace idle circles on her lower back. Eyes closed, she luxuriated into the touch, snuggling into the hollow of his neck and shoulder, feeling the still-fast beat of blood under his skin.

They lay until the sun was westward and its intensity faded, though the heat of the day lingered in the air. Eleanor's blouse was now dry but stiff with salt water. Vane pulled her over to his other side, shifting her into the hollow his body had created, looking down at her and twitching sand debris out of her hair with a flick of his fingers. Though his face was expressionless—or so it would have appeared to others—she saw something in it that made her want to lie there indefinitely. A kind of cherishing, perhaps. That at this moment, there was nowhere else he wanted to be, either.

But her stomach twisted with the realization that such interludes were not possible with any kind of regularity, that he would sail again with no promises of returning safely, for weeks at a time. It was not reasonable to expect anything else, and she didn't, and yet—

"You're thinking too hard," he said, lowering his mouth to taste along her neck. "I can hear it."

She tried to smile. "If my thoughts are so loud, what is their subject," she murmured.

"Me," he said with calm assurance.

"You sound very certain."

"If not me, then you're thinking about tomorrow," he said, running his palm over the slight concavity of her stomach.

She avoided his eyes, fixing her gaze on his shoulder.

"One of us needs to think about tomorrow," she said at last.

"It'll come whether we think about it or not."

"I don't know how to live that way." Frustrated, she plucked at a handful of grass under her palm, her arm having been extended sideways, and immediately let out a quick exclamation of pain as the reeds scored across her fingers.

He took her hand with a slight frown and put his mouth to the cut, stanching the trickle of blood. Her insides knotted again at the way a purely practical gesture of his could strike her as tender.

"Learn," he said, closing her fingers into a fist.

The sun passed behind a section of silvery clouds, temporarily obscured. She shivered, though it was not cold.

"Want to go back?"

"Not terribly."

"What were you doing in Port Royal?"

She let the question sit for a moment while she tried to adjust to its abruptness, though he'd asked it mildly enough.

"I—you know that. My father sent me."

"You mentioned your own business."

"It really was not..."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Significant," she mumbled.

He waited.

"My father wished me to give some thought to..." It sounded so ridiculous, put into words. "Finding a potential mate."

"Mate," he repeated. "Someone to fuck?"

She met his eyes now with exasperation. "You know that's not what he had in mind."

"I don't see why you're in need of a husband."

"Neither do I, except for—" She wrinkled her nose without meaning to. "Offspring."

"Hm," he said. "That would be important to your father. I'm guessing it's not to you."

Eleanor shook her head. "What use could I be to the business if I were breeding? And as for a husband...The only other reason he wants me to find one is because he thinks it would help to control me."

" _Did_ you find one?"

She sighed. Her fist was still clenched against the whisper-thin cut which was stinging. "There was no one I didn't fear I would smother with a cushion if I were forced to endure a single night of married life at his side."

He made a noncommittal sound.

"Besides, I was hardly at my best that week, with getting ill aboard ship and you making inappropriate propositions in the alehouse—"

"That was you and your damn insistence on settling debts," he said. "And the dress didn't help."

She angled her back stiffly, pushing away from him. "I was wearing such a thing because I was _supposed_ to be attending the dinner of my hosts, but if I am to be blamed for my honesty in accounting, or the luxury of my _costume_ —"

"Stop," he said, kissing her obdurate mouth. "I didn't give a fuck about the money, I just wanted to do this with you. And this."

Her breath caught in her throat, her body rising up despite her desire to remain irritated. He was doing something that could not be ignored. Shortly later they were entangled again; he was pulling her on top of him, settling her hips over his, then grabbing her hands. The sting of the cut forgotten, Eleanor melded her palms and thighs with his, abandoning grievances and frustrations for the moment—or perhaps burying them in their mingled flesh—too aware of tomorrow robbing all of this from them.

They didn't leave the cove until the sun was flinging its colors all over the horizon like so many scattered scarves; cream-yellow, pink and crimson and finally purple-black. Half a moon gave them enough light to find the path back in the darkness, traversing the scattered rocks and sandy bluffs hand in hand. With town's golden blurs of torches and lanterns beyond, Eleanor kissed him good night reluctantly, salty and aching with use but largely sore of heart; while they had only just begun, it already felt like another ending.


	11. Chapter 11

Pride pushed firmly to some part of her where she could deal with it later, Eleanor lurked in the hallway near Max's room, keeping a covert eye on the closed door. She couldn't be certain how long she might have to wait if she wanted to catch Max between customers, but she needed information and she was damned if she was going to seek it from Mrs. Mapleton or from one of the wretched crones plying their tonics in back-alley stalls, for that matter.

She leaned back into the window alcove, swaying from foot to foot in a nervous attempt to pass the time faster. The early evening light in the air was still rich with color, the western sun burnishing the wooden pillars dark red like old blood.

She started; her elbow was going numb from leaning, and the door had opened. She maintained her discreet position as the man left the room and took the staircase down. Eleanor went to the door and tapped, poking her head in.

"Yes?" Max was splashing water over her face and hands, wiping them on a rag. She looked over at Eleanor.

"I need to talk to you."

Max gestured her in, fastened her robe and went to the window to throw it open for some sunlight. Eleanor closed the door and slid the latch, then hesitated a moment before pulling out a chair to sit.

"You are not talking," Max said. "What is it you want to say?"

 _What_ do _I want to say?_ Eleanor wondered. What she wanted to and what she did were so often very different things.

Best, perhaps, just to come out with it. "I need to know how to avoid falling pregnant."

"The best way," Max said, "is not to not fuck anyone."

"Thank you. I'm afraid I'm beyond that."

"This is not a...hypothetical question?"

"No," Eleanor said. "Not hypothetical."

Max put down the rag and moved the pitcher in precise alignment with the washbowl, leaving her hands on them for a moment. The silence blanketed the air.

"There are things you can do," she said at last. "Don't ask the other whores, they are stupid and will tell you stupid things. There are drinks you can take...Whatever you do, don't go to that woman next to the butcher's."

"Why?" Eleanor said, imagination alight despite herself.

"One of the girls did, last year, and she died."

"It might have been something else?"

"It might have been," Max said, "but it wasn't."

"Have you ever—" she hesitated. They had never discussed such things before, just as they never discussed Max's job or her clients.

"I believe it is not possible for me to breed." Max spoke with a cool matter-of-factness.

"Oh."

"But I can still get their sicknesses, therefore I take many of the same steps. Are you planning to tell me who you are fucking?"

Max's melodic accent made her words sound less harsh, but Eleanor still flinched. "You don't have to put it in those terms."

"I have never known you to shy away from using such words."

"Yes, well, not to describe what _I'm_ doing."

The other woman stooped to pick up some discarded clothing on the floor, tossing the articles on the end of her bed with more vehemence than necessary. "I see. So fucking is what I do, not what you do."

"I did not mean it that way—"

"Who?"

Eleanor wordlessly folded sections of fabric in her skirt. If someone as watchful as Max really did not know who she was sleeping with, it was unlikely anyone else had noticed. Then again, the question could have been disingenuous.

"I cannot see what difference it makes," she said at last.

"Perhaps it does not. But I am surprised you think you need to hide from me. Because we do not sleep together now, you do not trust me? Is that it?"

"If I did not still consider you a trusted friend I would not have come to you at all," Eleanor retorted.

Max shrugged. "That necklace you wear now, it is very pretty."

Eleanor looked away, conscious that her cheeks were pinkening.

"You do not look unhappy. I can assume he is treating you kindly?"

She nodded, for some reason aware of a tightness in her throat.

"Though even if he were not, you know there is nothing I could do." Max pushed a package into her hands now. "This is medicine you can take after. Not too much at once."

Eleanor stared at the crumpled sack. "Can I—it must cost something—"

"Do not talk to me of money." Max made a dismissive wave.

"I'm sorry," Eleanor said, though the apology felt feeble, and went, grateful but rather uncomfortably diminished in spirit.

* * *

"Miss Guthrie, one of the men's saying last week's chicken gave 'im the runs for a fortnight," bawled one of the serving girls, dropping off a tray of dirtied mugs on the counter as she leaned across it.

"That's not chronologically possible," Eleanor answered, abstracted, trying to perform her own mental calculations while she worked. Half the men from at least two other pirate crews besides the _Ranger'_ s were in the tavern tonight and it was becoming a rousing evening. More than usual quantities of rum were being consumed and she was trying to determine if they would need more barrels from the storehouse before morning. "Have you seen Mr. Scott?"

"No ma'am, but what should I say to the customer?"

"You could tell him to fuck off," Eleanor murmured, and then, louder, "Blame the butcher who sent us a batch of sick hens, and give him this tankard, _gratis_." She pushed it across the counter towards the girl with her left hand, using her right to uncork a bottle of more expensive spirits for a pair of well-to-do merchants waiting at a nearby table.

The girl, sweaty face smudged with soot, disappeared with the drink. Eleanor added the bottle and glasses to another tray and bore it out, avoiding the flung-out arm of an inebriated patron telling an animated tale involving three-breasted mermaids. "Here you are, gentlemen." She smiled at their complimentary words for the service, for her appearance (likening her to an English rose among marguerites or some such gallant nonsense she had heard many a time before) and bowed out, to their chorus of protestations.

She had spotted Vane with Rackham and Anne at one of the longer tables, involved in a game of cards with some of the other crew members, but there was no time to go to them—nor did she especially want to, given tonight's commotion.

Someone was starting a fight over a whore at the moment anyway. Eleanor made eye contact with one of her employees—Lennox, a strapping fellow whose sole job was to stand at various points around the room and monitor such outbursts, then show the offenders to the door if necessary. Technically the whores were Mr. Noonan's responsibility, not Eleanor's, but she had found that forestalling such problems before they arose made everything run that much more smoothly. She went over—maintaining a respectful distance should any fists start to fly or tankards be thrown—and advised the men that, if they were both settled on this particular girl, one of them would simply have to wait his turn. Neither wished to be second, but with Lennox backing up Eleanor's suggestion, they sullenly settled it between them, and she was free to move on.

There was a large spill of uncertain provenance but dubious smell on the floor near the kitchens. She called a girl to come and attend to it. She would take a break soon, but not just yet. Someone in a stupor was dangerously close to having his hair affixed to the waxy wood by the melting candle; his friends seemed unconcerned when she pointed it out to them.

Sighing, Eleanor headed for the counter again, meaning to wash her hands which were by now unpleasantly sticky, when a booted foot was shoved thigh-height in front of her skirt, halting her in mid-step. In fact, she nearly tripped, having been distracted by her desire to go and wash.

It was Hamund, still seated at the table with his friends.

She was not in the mood to hear anything come out of their mouths unless it was a polite request for more drink, and even then, she thought, she would have a hard time maintaining a professional demeanor, given how they'd behaved the last time they talked to her. She inhaled, controlling her urge to whip out her rapier and slash at Hamund's leg with it, or even kick it out of the way with her own booted foot.

 _Do not lose your temper,_ she told herself. _Do not...do not...do not. They are men. They are pirates—to be insulting and lewd is in their nature; it is virtually expected of them_.

"Can I help you?" she said in a frosty tone.

"You could give me a little some of what we all know you're giving the captain, eh?"

She stared at Hamund for an instant. He grabbed his crotch in case she was in any doubt as to his meaning, and stuck his tongue between his teeth while his companions either snickered or made bolstering grunts of support.

If he'd spoken quietly it might, perhaps, have mitigated her response, but he had virtually brayed—the result being that everyone in their vicinity stilled as if by some unspoken agreement. Easily thirty heads—among them Vane's, Rackham's and Anne Bonny's—turned towards Eleanor to watch her reaction.

Hamund stood up, right in her space, just inches away but she didn't move a fraction in return though it meant she had to smell his fetid, alcohol-soured breath as he rose to his height, a full head taller than she. Lennox, her man watching back by the far wall, would be at her side if Hamund so much as poked an unwanted finger in her chest, but she signalled him to stay. She wasn't afraid.

She was quietly enraged.

Not so quietly, perhaps. "Get the fuck out of my tavern," she said, her voice ringing clear and loud.

She didn't know if she had ever known the central space, filled with that many occupants, to become so silent so fast. She saw out of the corner of her eye that Mr. Scott had appeared, hovering behind the counter.

Hamund spat, noisily, sloppily, on what little ground lay between them— almost on her boots. Fury rose higher in her like a coiling snake, choking out any other considerations.

"That goes for anyone else who crews for the _Ranger,"_ she shouted, spinning in a circle. "The fuck out! Now!"

Hamund let loose a stream of incredulous obscenities while his three friends jumped from their seats and grabbed him, shouldering him bodily towards the door. All of a sudden there was chaos, where the crewmen she'd named were standing, some swearing, some spilling drinks or kicking over a chair, all moving. Vane had got up, Rackham and Anne right behind him, tight-lipped and with his habitual economy of motion—no dramatic gestures—circling around and ushering the last of the men towards the doors. Serving girls stood in open-mouthed shock, drinks in hand; the whores who'd been abandoned already turning to the remaining customers. Eleanor could still hear Hamund bellowing from the front steps.

She should have gone upstairs and locked herself in her room at that juncture, and from the look on Mr. Scott's face that was certainly what he was urging her to do. From the backward glance Vane threw at her that was no doubt what he wanted as well.

But she was damned if she was going to run and hide after Hamund had, in her tavern, in front of her customers, called her a whore.

She marched for the door herself.

The men were all out in the street, a few of them too drunk to know or care what exactly had happened, most quite aware and angry, only one or two looking like they might conceivably, in some measure, be able to see things from her perspective. Hamund was trying to get back to her, prevented by three of the others. Vane she saw a little apart, in the shadows of the street, hands on hips like he didn't know what the fuck he wanted to do (she couldn't blame him for that.) Anne had both swords out. Jack Rackham had one fist pressed to his mouth, the other gripping the shoulder of a less-calm crew member.

"I'm going to kill that fucking bossy cunt!" Hamund was raging.

Eleanor spotted a pistol handle tucked in the belt of a nearby man, a fellow from another crew come out on the front veranda to watch the goings-on. She neatly divested him of it, successful probably because it was the last thing anyone had expected she might do. Levelling the pistol at Hamund from the higher position of the step, she said, "I don't think so."

Someone—Rackham?— groaned. She heard Mr. Scott hissing her name from beyond the doors. Someone else swore, but then, there was a lot of swearing. The others closest to Eleanor backed away carefully, forming a semi-circle.

Hamund was either startled into motionlessness or had gone apoplectic with fury, it was impossible to tell. He snarled at her like a wild animal.

"Captain," she called, gesturing with the pistol, "control your fucking man, or I will control him for you."

Vane didn't move, but Anne was there, a slim black shadow, swearing at Hamund to go down to the beach, both weapons poised in mid-air as if she were prepared to enforce her commands. His friends scrambled, dragging him back. The air in the street was hot and thick with alcohol and sweat and barely- contained rage as if it were leaking out of the pores of everyone present. Eleanor held the pistol steady at the end of her arm, taking no small amount of satisfaction in her ability to keep it level—all that practicing was being put to good use now. The men started to disperse in the direction of the beach. Vane was the last to go, giving the area a visual sweep to ensure all his crew had gone before him, then throwing Eleanor a look she couldn't exactly identify—certainly he was not happy with the turn of events, but she didn't care, since neither was she. She kept the flintlock pointed until they had disappeared into the tenebrous night and then drew it back, circling to look at the others still gathered on the porch.

"The rest of you, if you're not finished drinking," she said, "can go the fuck back _in,_ one round for everyone."

This produced a general murmur of approval as most of them good-naturedly filed back indoors, slapping their comrades or continuing half-finished stories. Eleanor wasn't oblivious to a few lingering dirty looks and comments under breath from those who sympathized with the dismissed crew, but she ignored these. She returned the pistol to its owner—the young man had been waiting, half-sheepish, half-apprehensive, for its return—and lingered until the veranda cleared.

Mr. Scott joined her. She gave him a warning glance.

"I fear that may not have been wise," he said, in a tone of controlled diplomacy.

"Not _wise_?"

"Do you prefer utterly foolhardy?"

"You did hear what he said to me?"

"I believe everyone heard what he said to you. My concern is not so much about your expelling him from the premises as it is for your decision to include the entire crew."

"Undisciplined troublemakers," she said. "I was sick of the lot of them."

"And what of the captain? How do you expect him to react?"

"I have no expectations of him. He may react as he likes." Eleanor brushed her arm sleeves dismissively, realizing as she spoke it was something of a lie; she did have expectations of Vane, she just was not sure what they were.

"Captain Vane will most assuredly take the side of his men. I did warn you not to make an enemy of him, Eleanor—"

" _Mr._ Scott."

He fell silent, mouth closed, breath suspended in forbearance.

"Is this not my tavern? _Mine_?"

"Of course it is—"

"And do I not have the right to say who will come and go?"

"Within reason—"

"I consider it adequate reason when I am as good as called a whore in my own building, do you not?"

"Forgive me, Eleanor, but was there any justification for Mr. Hamund's sentiments, however ill-expressed?"

"This conversation is over," she said, turning and pushing the swinging doors inward, leaving him behind.

The remaining few hours of business were, thankfully, dull by comparison, and on any other such evening Eleanor might have retired early since there were no outstanding issues to deal with, but tonight she stayed till the last patrons drifted away, making sure her physical presence was noted. She would not be seen to be crying in her cider (even had she sought such a release in the privacy of her room; she was too angry for weeping). Rather, she would display capable confidence regardless of the earlier incident, though there was no doubt maintaining her image was difficult that night.

Lennox inquired if she wanted him posted outside either her room or the main doors, adding that there were other men available if Eleanor wished, but she declined and sent him on his way.

She'd been thinking for several weeks of keeping a pistol behind the counter; she would get one tomorrow. Hamund's threat was still ringing in her ears. She truly wasn't afraid of him; Anne's earlier comparison of him to a pox pustule entered her mind, but it was a consideration not to be completely dismissed.

She was running a rag along the sticky surface of the bar counter, when Max came downstairs, an expression of graceful indifference on her face. She paused by the counter. "A busy night."

Eleanor widened her eyes dramatically. "It certainly was. I hope you're not here to lecture me too."

"No," Max said, "just here to have some fruit; I am hungry. I think you know quite well what you are doing."

"If I am honest," Eleanor admitted, " _I_ rather think I am making it up as I go."

Max smiled, reaching across the counter for a mango. "In the end, we all have to decide how much we will tolerate," she said, biting into the scarred skin. "I cannot say if I would have done the same or not, in your position. Men will always want to drink and fuck, and this is the place to do so in Nassau."

"It wasn't a permanent injunction against the crew," Eleanor defended. "That pig Hamund, yes, possibly."

"Perhaps you should consider making the distinction plain." Max wiped fruit juice delicately from her chin. "When tempers have had a chance to settle," she added.

Eleanor sighed. "Perhaps. For now, I want only to go to bed."

"That would be best." Max bade her goodnight and drifted back up the stairs. Eleanor locked the tavern doors and went up herself.

* * *

 _A/N: The following chapter will be the final one. Just advising, for any purists, that there will be a slight deviation from canon regarding Hamund. Other than that, it is meant to set the stage for season 1 where Eleanor and Vane are, of course, depicted as having history together though we don't really know what it is. This was just my idea on how it might have been. Thanks to everyone for following and reading!_


	12. Chapter 12

In the morning, on her way back from the gunsmith's, Eleanor ran into Jack Rackham. She hailed him, impulsively, before realizing she didn't quite know what to say. She liked the _Ranger_ 's quartermaster, and hadn't meant for him to be involved in last night's disturbance.

Similarly, he seemed unsure how to react, though he straightened and gave her a stiff little head inclination without his usual flair. "Mistress Guthrie."

"I am sorry about last night," she said, employing charm to make up for the lack of his. "It was not intended to get so out of hand. May I ask how the crew is feeling today?"

He straightened his jacket. "I would be untruthful if I led you to believe anyone was particularly pleased with how the evening unfolded," he said at last. "Least of all our captain."

"What of—Mr. Hamund?" It irked her to use the honorific, but daylight hours encouraged the following of social conventions.

The _Ranger'_ s quartermaster inhaled. "He would not stand down last night; that, and further insubordinations, led to...disciplinary measures being taken. Which he did not, as it happens, survive."

"What? I mean, I—I beg your pardon?" Eleanor gaped for a heartbeat before closing her mouth and looking around.

"He is dead. He was not murdered," Jack quickly specified.

"But—" She needed to know more than that. A great deal more.

"Yet," he went on, "those of the crew who felt their sympathies lie with him are—as you can imagine—somewhat less than delighted with the outcome."

"Er...understandably," Eleanor murmured, trying to unravel her rapidly tangling thoughts. "Honestly, Jack, I—I am rather at a loss for words."

He gazed at her for a moment, dark narrow eyebrows angled high, assessing.

"I didn't ask for...I didn't want him dead."

"Didn't you?"

"I never said such a thing—it was he who threatened me." She heard defensiveness swelling back into her voice again and took a breath to calm herself.

"Be that as it may," Jack said, putting a hand at her elbow and guiding her out of the main path of the street so they were not as visible, "It was not because of you, though some are saying it is, and will put the blame on your head. One of several reasons the captain currently finds himself at an impasse."

Finding his gaze too perceptive, she glanced away.

"What would you do in my place?" she asked, surprising herself with the realization that his opinion was important to her.

He looked equally startled by the question. "If I were in your place? The only child of a wealthy governor? I'd count my blessings, that's what I would do."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Meaning, my darling Miss Guthrie, I would find a way to make it right."

"I don't believe I have done anything wrong."

"Perhaps not, but things have gone wrong all the same."

"What do you propose?"

"We men are simple creatures," he said, "quite in contrast to you intriguingly complicated ones." He spoke with a curious mixture of light mockery and intense gravity. "Which is to say, we are easily lost, but perhaps even more easily won back."

"Go on."

"If you were to offer, shall we say, a token of good faith, a gesture showing your generosity...which is perhaps in question at the moment—"

"You want me to _bribe_ the men to return?"

"Well. Not to put too fine an edge on it, eh? That is not quite what I said. They should feel free to come back or not as they like, of course. Such things have a way of working themselves out over time. But for the moment... encouragement of a financial nature would certainly work towards sweetening sour dispositions."

"A pity it cannot return their friend," she said, with some sarcasm.

"Yes, well. One cannot have everything."

"I do not reject the suggestion out of hand," Eleanor said, "but I am not ready to accept it, either. Do you have any other ideas?"

"None that I think you might like."

"Still, I am prepared to listen."

"You could throw yourself at the captain's mercy."

She drew her brows together, but he seemed completely serious.

"Though I have reason to know," Jack added contemplatively, "that he is not a particularly merciful man."

The sun beating down on them suddenly felt more intense than usual. Eleanor shaded her eyes and gazed over to what she could see of the beach. "I will have to speak with him sooner or later," she said almost to herself.

"Mm," he agreed noncommittally.

Though now, she was rather leaning towards later. But was that advisable? If Vane was angry with her, would his anger diminish or increase with the passage of time? She was not sure, and she was damned if she was going to ask Jack for his opinion on _that_. She thanked him for stopping to talk to her, bade him good-day and they parted ways with something approximating amicability.

"Eleanor?" he called after her before she had taken a dozen steps, causing her to turn. "When sooner or later comes? I suggest a public place."

She did not know precisely what to make of that and so rather feebly waved to indicate that she had, at least, heard what he had said.

She let the matter sit for another day while she tried to determine an appropriate venue for a meeting with Vane. Even if invited, she doubted he would come to the tavern now until some resolution or other had been achieved; that was her recently established territory, and she would not go to his tent, that was his—and moreover far too personal considering the interactions they'd shared there. Rackham's advice of a public location seemed sound in principle, except she was loath to have anyone privy to whatever words passed between them or conflict they were likely to create. If her dealings with the captain had been the subject of local conversations already, she could only imagine what fuel a street encounter would add to the flame of speculative gossip.

After thinking on it that night, she woke in the morning having come up with a place that seemed a suitable compromise; the old lookout point. Second only to the fort as the highest spot on the island, it was beyond the town to the south and had served as a viewing spot for the back of the island, with shallow rock cliffs falling away below its crumbling stone platform. Open-air and by no means secluded, the spot would offer them a measure both of privacy and security. If she could just persuade Vane to come.

She sent Mr. Scott to relay the message of invitation, emphasizing her hope that they could meet that afternoon in a spirit of mutual cooperation. Mr. Scott returned some time later and told her he had only been allowed to speak with Rackham, who had been polite enough but not made any guarantees on his captain's behalf.

"May I not accompany you," Mr. Scott implored, as she straightened papers on the desk in her office, more out of need to have something to do than because they were out of any particular order. "You should not meet him unattended."

She was cold to him, still smarting from his question of the other day. "Your position here in this household is not that of my bodyguard, Mr. Scott," she reminded him.

"Then take a man with you. Lennox is just outside, or Hutchins—"

"Thank you, but I will go alone." Eleanor fastened her sword belt on her hip as punctuation. "You will remain here and go over the accounts."

"If anything happened to you, your father would never forgive me."

"That is quite likely true."

"Nor would I forgive myself."

"Unfortunately," Eleanor said, "I do not have the leisure to be concerned with how others may feel about any misfortunes befalling me," and used a forefinger to tip the book on her desk closed.

She went up to the old pavilion in the early afternoon when the sun was still painfully bright overhead, not certain what she planned to do if Vane did not appear. For a time she looked at waves foaming on the small rocks below, the stretch of endless sea and sky, the colors so alike as to blend together into indeterminacy at the horizon. When that activity palled, she took a seat upon the remaining stone bench that was lichened from exposure to rain and ocean moisture.

She had not slept well the previous night, her mind preoccupied with the possibilities of the current day. Before very long, lulled by wind and surf and the heady freshness of the air, she began to drift off, leaning back against the low crumbling stone wall, only semi-aware of her surroundings.

A gull cawed overhead—how much later, she was not sure—and she blinked, spotting Vane straddling the wall at a right angle to her. He was smoking. How long he'd been there she couldn't say, and she was aware of the disadvantage of having been caught less than alert. He ground his rolled cigarette rather viciously against the flat stones.

"Thank you," she said, adding honestly, "I didn't know if you would come."

He said nothing. She saw the muscles in his jaw held tight, as though gatekeepers holding back a waterfall of torrential speech.

Eleanor hated what lay ahead, even while aware of its necessity. An admittance of guilt, a confession of failure, a sign of weakness. Why was there not an easier way to make amends, without saying the words? Or was there, and she had just not learned its secret yet? She only knew she despised saying she was wrong when she wasn't.

"I want to apologize," she said. That was partially true, since she wasn't exactly sorry. "Your men offended me, but my intent was not to exact a lifetime prohibition on them, nor was it meant to include you personally."

"Anyone who crews for the _Ranger_ ," he said. Almost spat. "A ship of which, in case you forgot, _I'm the fucking captain_."

A little feebly she plucked at the threads in her skirt. "I—I understand."

"If you did understand," he said, "I'd wring your cursed neck. Or give you to the men and let them do as they pleased. Youth and ignorance are working in your fucking favor, so don't try to convince anyone otherwise."

"I let a personal grievance take precedence over larger concerns. For that, I do ask pardon. Even though my name was insulted...and a woman has little else to hold dear." She tried to speak steadily, though vexation was threatening to make her voice uneven.

"The men want reparation," he said, after a curt moment of silence.

"I assume you speak of money."

"You assume that because you're Richard Guthrie's—" For a moment she thought he was going to say spawn but he said "—child."

"Your quartermaster seemed to think it might help."

"Because he speaks your language."

"If I were to speak the language of your men I would need to make myself available at the fuck tent," she said acidly.

One eyebrow elevated and he tilted his head to the side a notch; a shrug, a clear _if-that's-what-you-think-it-will-take_ expression.

"Fuck you," Eleanor said. Not her finest repartee, and she heard the echo of Anne Bonny in the harsh sounds, but it was all that sprang to her lips in that moment. She wasn't sure which was worse, that he pretended not to care if he shared her with his crewmembers, or that he really _didn't_ care. Both possibilities repelled her.

"Problem with you is," he said, "you worry more about what people say about you than what they think. My advice? Turn that around." He pushed off the stone wall and came towards her with slow steps that echoed those of a watchful animal. "You'll welcome us," he said, "tonight."

She was tempted to respond that the tavern would be open as usual but she would not be present. Which was possible, of course; the business could and did function in her rare absences from the premises, but that would be making a different statement from the one he expected from her.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek.

"I want an answer," he said, inflexibly, blocking the sun so she could look up at him from the bench without squinting.

 _Sometimes I think you are the devil himself_ , Eleanor thought. _How is that for answer?_

 _"_ Very well," she said, the flatness of her tone in counterpoint to the firmness of his. "They may drink free for the first part of the night. I would not count on any further concessions."

He reached for her hand, tugging her to a standing position, and moved in close. Since it was difficult to tell whether he meant to be disciplinary or affectionate, neither of which she was particularly receptive to at the moment, she turned her face away.

"Eleanor," he said, a short space from her ear. "Don't fuck this up."

He tightened his fingers around her wrist for a few further seconds and then let go, gave her a hard stare which she briefly met before he turned and strode off the stone pavilion, down the dilapidated steps.

She pondered whether his parting statement referred to the night to come or their fledgling relationship. Possibly both. In sudden frustration she wrenched a loose stone from the top of the wall and sent it flying down the slope to crash into the brush below. A few birds skittered out of the bushes. Eventually she exhaled, driving tension out of her body with the rapid expulsion of air, and traced his footsteps down the path back towards town.

Conscious that the night would be a trying one, she prepared by taking a nap upon returning to her rooms. Then upon awakening in the early evening, she washed and changed into a pretty muslin skirt, one of her nicer corsets, and a sun-bleached blouse. Having turned up her hair, she applied color to her face, which seemed nearly as pale as the blouse, and stared at herself in the mirror for a long time before deciding she looked young and appealing and not nearly as hard-nosed and ruffled of spirit as she in fact felt. She reached up to touch Vane's gift of the Spanish necklace, planning to take it off, but hesitated. She hadn't realized it had even been around her neck these past few days. To remove it tonight seemed like too much of a message, so, leaving it, she went downstairs.

The dinner hour, when most of her local patrons came primarily to eat, passed peaceably enough, as it generally did. Some time later, Lennox came to Eleanor, quietly informing her that Vane and a good handful of the crew were on their way up. Did she want them kept from entering?

She practiced her smile—it felt tight, but she was going to have to paste it on for the rest of the night—and told Lennox that would not be necessary; the crew of the _Ranger_ were not seeking trouble (she hoped) and he should merely keep a watchful eye on things as usual.

She ran over a number of diplomatic greetings in her mind, all of which sounded saccharine to her internal self-critic.

Passing on the information to the kitchen staff and maids that the crew would be entitled to a free initial round of drinks, Eleanor positioned herself unobtrusively near the doors while she conducted a quick and not entirely dedicated conversation on the subject of tomorrow's weather with Mr. Clifton, the chandler. His last comment trailed away curiously when they heard the bootsteps in concert outside on the veranda.

"Miss Guthrie." Her captain's voice—their captain's voice, damn it—hailed her. "Step outside for a moment, if you please."

The 'please' notwithstanding, it was clearly not a request. Nor could she have expected one, with his men behind him. Swallowing a brief surge of nervous ire at this alteration to her rehearsed plans, Eleanor straightened, touched Mr. Clifton on the shoulder and encouraged him to enjoy his evening.

Lennox had a palm over the handle of his flintlock and she made eye contact with him before pushing the doors outward and stepping into the night.

Before her, scattered grim hard faces, belonging to the crew; Rackham's cautiously optimistic, Anne Bonny's, suspicious. Calm but warning, Vane's—his eyes repeating the earlier message, _don't fuck this up_.

Eleanor delivered a tiny, provisionary smile.

"Captain Vane," she said. "Good evening." The necklace felt like a brand on her skin all of a sudden and she had no idea why she hadn't taken it off when it occurred to her earlier.

"I understand you want us to come in for a drink at your expense," he said.

She acknowledged that by inclining her head and bending her knee in the smallest curtsy that had ever been executed.

"Before we do-one outstanding issue."

Eleanor had turned to lead the way back indoors but she had to pause, looking at him with pleasant inquiry, although she felt unease settle in her stomach like an iron punch.

"The men want an apology."

She gazed at him while the words sank in. _The fuck_ the men _want an apology_. With sudden and complete clarity she realized that this was not primarily about the crew, or Hamund, or perhaps even at all; this was personal, he was getting her back for having told him, outside in the street in front of everyone, to control his men or she would do it for him.

But, he'd warned her this was coming. Just a few hours ago. _The men want reparation_. And she had assumed—because she was Richard Guthrie's daughter so he said—that meant money. In no small part because Rackham had earlier put the suggestion into her mind.

 _It's only words. Just a few words_. Behind Vane, Jack's face was impassive but she saw the pleading look in his eyes. _Just say the words, Eleanor_. _Say the fucking words!_

She shivered with distaste.

 _Reparation._

It was just a different form of violation, forcing her to make this choice that wasn't a choice. She didn't know if she could do it.

 _Say the words, say the words_.

Did Anne look suspicious now, or was she imagining a fraction of sympathy?

Too much time was passing in silence, inaction. They would be gone in a moment, and while she could arguably afford to lose a pirate crew, this one was Vane's. She would lose him too.

Though she wasn't convinced that would be a bad thing. Especially considering the way he was managing to smirk without any expression at all on his face.

He had her. As surely as the time in the alley pinned up against the wall. This felt worse, possibly because it was so much more premeditated. So public.

"I do offer my apologies," she said, somehow managing a warm inflection though her insides felt glassed over, like a rare morning frost. "I sincerely hope you accept them, and join us indoors."

She felt Rackham's relief like a physical pat of approval. Vane, a far less emotive person, had a correspondingly less palpable response.

The crew remained unthawed, but they followed the lead of their captain and quartermaster, filing in without revelry or banter. Anne came in last, giving Eleanor an untranslatable glance as she passed through the open door. Eleanor took her last breath of outside air, feeling like she was about to march into prison.

There had been nights before, of course, when she hadn't wanted to be there, for whatever reason; nights where she dropped into bed exhausted or frustrated with the general caliber of clientele, nights where she persevered through illness because she was the least sick out of all the others working, nights where she heard an inner voice telling her she didn't really want to be doing this at all. But this was the first night she could remember where she went about the actions of hostess feeling the weight of serving a sentence, with the added difficulty of maintaining the politely attentive mask at every moment.

Rackham tried to talk to her. She wouldn't allow him, though she could see he was making a genuine attempt, not politically motivated, to restore their rapport. She poured his drink and when at one point he put his hand over hers for a moment, only in the manner of a concerned friend, she smiled and gracefully withdrew it. She could see, too, that hurt him, but she had her own hurt with which to occupy her thoughts.

Vane was coolly indifferent, blowing cigarette smoke and drinking little, keeping a close eye on the behavior of his crew, a close eye on Eleanor as well. She felt his gaze even when it couldn't possibly be on her, aware of his presence even from the far side of the room.

She continued to pour quantities of drinks that were not being paid for—a minor detail that nagged at that aspect of her personality which was always analyzing and assessing profits, despite the emotional upheaval. She tried to measure it in other ways; each drink poured brought her closer to the end of the night, each platter of bones sent back to the kitchen meant another patron on his way out. Marked off so, the night was easier to bear.

Eleanor fell back on internal stamina, her rituals of circling and resting after a number of serves. It was only when, past midnight, she began to feel unaccountably weak that she recalled not having eaten since noon. Yet her stomach still felt too cold for food. Under cover of the bar, she downed a long gulp of expensive whiskey, hoping to warm it up. After two more hearty drams her entire body was warm and she was relaxed enough to resume her rounds. She went from weak to rather light-headed, but her belly felt delightfully toasty, the smile on her face more natural now, unforced. And time passed much more quickly. Candles had melted into pools, the air was stiff with smoke, the door had closed on the last man. Suddenly she was alone.

Almost.

Jack swung into the seat at the bar, giving her an uneasy smile as she examined the small amount left in the bottle while wondering if she'd truly consumed all that on her own.

"I think you've had enough for the night, m'dear."

"I thought you had gone," she said distantly. "And I'm not your dear."

"Eleanor," he said, coaxingly. "Captain?"

"I'm not his dear either." She pulled out the stopper again and tipped the bottle up. Vane was there to tip it back down. Of course he was. She stared bitterly, licking spilt whiskey off the corner of her mouth, while he easily removed the bottle from her hand.

"You'll want this in the morning," he told her, dismissing Rackham, who looked grateful to make his escape.

"Fuck you, it _is_ morning." She lurched a little for his hand but he swept it away, making a clicking sound of denial with his tongue. "Not till you've slept."

The initial burst of alcohol-fueled energy was starting to wear off into mean enervation. She tapped her fingers on the wooden counter and shrugged as if it mattered nothing. Maybe he would go away if she remained still long enough. And remaining still didn't seem like a hardship. She put her elbows on the bar and put her head, which was spinning, down on her forearms. _So tired_. Was it possible to be this tired and not be dead?

"You deserved tonight," he said, calmly. "Whether or not you want to admit it."

"Congratulations on exacting your retribution," she said, slurring a little, but otherwise successfully managing to get the sentence out. "Was it satisfying?"

"It'll do."

"I'm so pleased." She stared through the smoky haze.

His hand closed on her elbow. "I'm taking you upstairs."

 _The hell you are_ , she thought with lazy intransigence, but he was inexorable, pulling her away from the bar, pressing her in the direction of the stairs. She climbed them slowly, pausing on each step and swaying. He made a murmuring sound, as if she was a pack mule needing reassurance, so she stepped on his boot, not entirely by accident. He put his arm around her waist, unbothered, and reached for her room key. She was pliant, unresisting; it seemed pointless to be otherwise. Something about all of it seemed fated, like he'd said back in the beginning, that this was how it was going to be between them. She kept remembering that.

They went in. He'd brought the bottle up, and he put it on her bedside table. Eleanor sat, very precisely, on the edge of her bed and folded her hands in her lap. Her back ached, but she held it straight. Her head spun more and more, but she held it up, too.

He looked at her for a few moments, sighed out through his nose. "This is not going to work," he said after a while. Not regretful, precisely. Rational, objective. A part of her appreciated that, even in not-sober confusion of mind and heart. Perhaps it was all they had both known from the beginning. _It is our fault for being who and what we are._ She wanted to say that, but her tongue couldn't form the words, though they came clearly to her head.

"Yes," she said distantly, at last. "I believe you are right."

The silence stretched between them a while, the bedside candle she'd lit much earlier starting to gutter.

"Thank you for seeing me upstairs," she said. "Good night—Captain."

She looked at him when he didn't say anything. He nodded, slightly. She glanced down in her lap again, listening to the sputtering of the candle, and then the sound of his boots, slowly, going towards the door. She waited until it was closed behind him, the pressure of air causing the improperly latched window shutter to fly open and send a fresh briny gust of warm sea breeze billowing in past the muslin curtains.

The candle resisted no further, being swallowed up and extinguished by the blast. In its smoky absence, Eleanor was able to register the pale light of early dawn coming in through the window.


End file.
